


The Only One in the World; I Invented the Job

by apliddell



Series: The Most Human [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Person, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 460
Words: 323,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the sequel to The Adventure of the Consulting Corpse. It's a serial with short plot arcs and long characterisation arcs. It follows John and Sherlock through the development of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My first morning back in England, I wake in Mycroft's slightly dusty second best guestroom (very subtle, Mycroft) sure that I am not alone. I open my eyes and sit up. John is sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace (small fire in deference to John's cosy sensibilities, no doubt. I'm already sweating) holding a steaming mug.

"Good morning, Sherlock" he says. I don't know what to say. He beams and takes a sip from his mug. Coffee by the smell of it. "Sleep well?"

"John," I say. My voice is rough. "John, good morning." John is so delighted, he can barely contain himself. His eyes are bright, and the tips of his ears are pink. He loves to surprise me. He hasn't stopped smiling since I opened my eyes.

"Why don't you have a wash and collect your thoughts a bit? I'll go and get you something to eat."

"Thank you." I don't want him to leave. "No need to get up. Just use the intercom by the door to call down to the kitchen. Mycroft’s got a housekeeper."

"It'll be nice to stretch my legs," he says. "I've been sitting in this chair all night. I got here just after you got in, but you were already asleep."

"Then you need a rest, not an errand." I flip back one corner of the bedclothes and slide over on the bed to make room for him.

"Slow down,” he says grinning. “You’re always setting people talking.”

"If we're paying deference to that particular set of sensibilities, you will want to leave the room before I get up. I'm not dressed."   
He goes the wardrobe and gets a dressing gown. It's my best one with the blue stripes, and it's been cleaned and steamed. I feel more myself as soon as I put it on.   
"That's better," John says fondly. "I hardly knew you with that garish hair."

"It's a disguise, John," with dignity.

"I'd never thought to picture you as a blonde. The more I look, the more it suits you, though."

"God, think what the papers would say," with a shudder. "I'll cut it off soon. It's come in dark underneath."

"You look lovely both ways. I'm so happy to see you."

I try to remember one of the sentimental things I used to say to myself about John's looks while I was dead. My mind's such a muddle, though; I can't think of anything. "Thank you."

"I'll just see about breakfast. Don't try to argue; you need your strength."

"Indeed. I'll just have a shower."

"Right, then. See you in a bit." John edges out the door. I get up and attend to my ablutions. When I come back into the bedroom, John is arranging a tray on a little table next to the fireplace (soldiers! and a pot of coffee). I notice my violin case sitting on a side table across the room and feel a little thrill. It can wait, though. John first, then breakfast. I cross the room in two steps and hug John very tightly. I'm flooded with new data about him and I'm so elated I can hardly stand it.

He's lost eleven pounds since I last saw him (very bad). He hasn't showered in about 30 hours (good) I prefer his smell to the smell of his shampoo. Tea, wool, and something evergreen I can't place. Pine smoke? Fir cones? How can I find out? I sniff his scalp silently, I hope. He always seems to find the sniffing unsettling. He's changed his brand of deodorant (wonder why?). He stayed up all night and had three cups of coffee and a large whiskey. He still has the ghost of the limp, but I shall chase it away by this evening; I'm sure. When I let go of him, I see he has tears in his eyes, and my own eyes start to prick.

"Don't cry John, it's catching." He laughs and I laugh, and we sit down to breakfast, still giggling. I don't recall ever being so eager to eat.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock has not mentioned our date. I must not have been clear enough when I set it. After we caught Moran, we were both so exhilarated, I was sure something would happen. But when we got back to the flat (221B Baker Street!), he collapsed into one of his multi-day sleeps, and I couldn’t begrudge him that.

Then Mycroft was round every day for a week to needle Sherlock alternately about preparing for the court case and coming to work for his minor office in the British government. So much snarling and flouncing. Sherlock actually bestirred himself from the flat to procure the most lavish cake I have ever seen, just so he could imply that Mycroft would eat it all. It was a delicious cake, though. Sherlock didn’t have any, but Mrs Hudson and I made short work of it.

I brought a piece to Molly at Bart’s. I dropped in at her lunch hour one day, and she was almost startled to see me. I hadn’t been to Bart’s in quite a while. It was nice to be back (without panicking). She’s sharp, Molly. Much more so than I gave her credit for. She spotted my ulterior motives in coming, even though I didn’t realise I had any.

“Are you here to talk about Sherlock?” she asked me after we had exchanged hellos.

“I’m here to bring you a piece of cake,” I was a bit stung. Molly and I are friends. We watched Glee together. Though she also watched Glee with...nevermind. Not worth mentioning. Molly and I are friends.

“Only he’s been back for two weeks and neither of you have been round to see me,” she pointed out. She said it quite firmly, but she blushed right up to the roots of her hair. I was possibly even more embarrassed than Molly.

“Right. That’s right. I’m so sorry, Molly. We’ve both been a bit preoccupied. But there’s no excuse. We should have visited you, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, John. I know what he’s like. What did you want to talk about?” She began to unwrap the little plate of cake and fished two forks out of a drawer.

“I didn’t really have anything in mind.”

“Has anything happened between the two of you yet?” she asked, passing me one of the forks.

“Happened?” I knew full well what she meant, but I hadn’t expected to hear it so plainly.

“I thought it would ages and ages ago. It’s what helped me get over him, to be honest. I could see what the two of you felt for each other. But then-”

“He chucked himself off the roof, and we all thought he was dead for a year.”

“Yeah.” The two of us (and Mycroft, whom I won’t count) excepted, I know, but neither of us said. Not then and not now. I should thank her. I should thank her on my knees, actually. Sherlock told me what she did for him. I speared her cake with my fork and took a bite. “So something’s happened?” she prompted.

“No,” I took another bite of cake. “I, er,” I suddenly felt very conscious of my whinging tone. I cleared my throat. “I’m not sure that Sherlock fancies people. Not like other people do anyway.”

“If he fancies anyone, he fancies you.”

“I know.” I ate a bit more cake before I said, “I can’t just ask him though, can I? Ooh, Sherlock, do you like me? Can you imagine what he’d say if I’d got it wrong?”

Molly smiled a very pinched smile, “I can, actually. Your Christmas party...”

“Oh, Molly, I’m such an arsehole. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking bringing this up with you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, John. I brought it up, remember?” She patted my hand. Lovely Molly. She’s so generous.

“Well Molly,” I looked down at the little plate to find I’d eaten all the cake. “Thanks for listening to me complain about my troubles and watching me eat the cake I brought you.”

She smiled, “Any time.”

“Come round the flat some time. I think there’s a bit more cake, and I promise I won’t make you watch while I eat it. You can have some as well.”

She nodded and smiled, “When things settle down a bit. I imagine you’ve still got lots going on there.”

“Oh things never settle down. Either we’ve got a case on and we’re dashing about, or he’s shooting holes in the wall and putting eyeballs in the microwave. But we must all do drinks and have a proper catch up chat.”

“I’d like that.” She gave me an awkward little hug that I didn’t have time to respond to. “I’ve got to get back to work now, John, but it was lovely to see you.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” I picked up the cake plate to return to Mrs Hudson.

“Don’t give up on him just yet,” she said. “He does like you; I can see it. This is just-”

“Not his area.”

“Exactly. You should tell him how you feel.”

I shook my head, “I can’t. Is there anything more humiliating than misreading Sherlock?”

Molly laughed, “Nothing at all.”


	3. Chapter 3

I mustn’t hurry him. It’s there, but he doesn’t see it yet. He must be allowed to realise on his own. It’s agony, though. I want to tell him. Or better still, show him. Take his hand and...what? I hate that I don’t know exactly what to do. I will have to prompt him somehow. I see it and he doesn’t, but I don’t know what to do and he does. Infuriating. I loathe irony.

I’ve been leaving him little traps. I sneaked one of my shirts into his wardrobe. Has he noticed? He hasn’t returned it. I left the piece I wrote for him on my music stand. His name is even written across the top (perhaps a bit looser than usual but legible, I believe). It’s been there for three days. Haven’t had the nerve to play it while he’s in the room yet. Sometimes I play it after he’s gone to bed. 

Once we were out on a case, and he was complaining of being cold. I took off my scarf and wrapped it round his neck, without a word. He stood looking at me for ages after I’d turned back to the crime scene. Even with my eyes on a particularly fruitful shoeprint (a tap shoe! lead me right to the killer, though sadly it turned out to be a crime of passion)(dull), I knew that his mouth had quirked in that way it does. In that kiss me, Sherlock way that he doesn’t yet know about.

I let Mrs Hudson see me look at him. Perhaps she’ll say something to him. No, she’ll think I don’t want him to know. I make the tea. No sugar. Splash of milk. I get it exactly right every time (he hasn’t mentioned it). I haven’t used his mug for anything (very) horrid in ages. The other day, I found myself raising a hand to brush his fringe off his forehead. I checked myself, but not before he noticed. I did not explain. He did not ask.

Sometimes I think I’m not completely without encouragement. He sighs rather more than he did, I think. He brushes my arm or my shoulder instead of calling my name to get my attention. Every time it makes me think of how few people touch me. Mrs Hudson, brash strangers, assailants, and my John. He’s taken to covering me with a blanket when I doze off on the sofa. Which I must kick off, sadly. I cherish the sentiment (good god!) but hot is hot.

He walks round in his dressing gown, now. He used to be so buttoned-up. I can hardly look at him when he does that. It’s gotten so that when I hear the clomping of his slippers, I reach for my violin or my microscope. Anything to avert my eyes. I want him to see, but not when it’s so raw. Don’t want to alarm him. Then again, he’s so myopic. I’m wearing my feelings as plainly as I might wear a jacket. Waiting for him to compliment me on my limerence. 'Sherlock, I see you’ve put on a bespoke infatuation. Very fetching.' Anyway, John is not alarmed by sex. Only by me.

I never sit in my chair anymore, only on the sofa. An invitation. An invitation he accepts around 30% of the time. It might be more, I think, but once he’s on the sofa, I immediately begin to crowd him. As much as I can get away with. He’s quite tolerant to a point. Generally he moves when I start to press my knee against his knee. He pops up to make a cup of tea or to use the loo or get the paper from the kitchen table. Sits back down in his chair. He knows I notice, but he’s grateful I don’t mention it. Still I try it.

He pats my shoulder now before he leaves the room. 'See you later, Sherlock' and a lingering pat on my left shoulder. Nothing dreadful will happen. At least nothing dreadful that isn’t also wonderful. Neither of us will be swallowed by a sinkhole before we meet again (though the bottom of a sinkhole could be temporarily interesting). John always knows just how to humanise me (the most human human being no, can’t think of that now). John will know how to kiss me. Will he? Will it make a difference? Kisses have no utility; they’re only symbolic. One need not be particularly proficient in kissing in order to properly express one’s meaning. Or so goes my supposition. John would tell me, if I could ask him.

Wanting John scares me in a way I have not scared myself since the cocaine. I will not be able to do this gently. I am greedy and capricious. I can’t pace myself. I’ll want all of him always. Every scrap of his time and attention. I’ll say cruel things for a moment’s advantage. I’ll insist on my own way. I’ll storm and sulk and refuse to speak. I’ll take him for granted. I’ll know every bit of him; he won’t be able to hold anything back for his own protection (that honest face). I do all of that now, though, I suppose. I must be strong. I won’t push him, won’t pressure him. Not the smallest bit. If he wants me like I want him, we’ll sort it out somehow. For now, I’ll just hint and wait and watch.


	4. Chapter 4

I found John’s sniper before I even left London. He is the only person I have ever killed (to date), and I would do it again. I would murder that man every morning before breakfast for the rest of my life to protect John. John would let me, I’m quite sure. I like that. John would approve of this sentiment.

We’re so dark, John and I. People think he’s a sweet little man in a fair isle jumper (ugh) but John has killed for me, and now I’ve killed for him. Elegant. We are a matched set. I love a good set. I love symmetry. Most people don’t notice because they can’t see patterns (bless them) but I do derive a mild, soothing satisfaction from putting things just so. And now I match my John. Lovely. Both of us decorated with a little red spray. Perhaps I can tell him that. 'Poetry, Sherlock', he’d say. I’d pretend to be annoyed. Must stop deflecting.

If I had ever done this before, the impatience would have killed me. (No, nothing can kill me now. I can come back over and over for John. As long as he’ll have me.) If I had any inkling what to do, I would have swan-dived toward John long ago. I would have grabbed him and kissed him and... what? How does one progress elegantly? Or at least not cloddishly. 

Perhaps I could evince bashfulness and muddle through on my theoretical knowledge. I hate blundering. So humiliating. John is such a tender teacher, though. Somehow I don’t feel stubborn and spiteful that he sees things I don’t. Things are better for me (socially) when I let John show me what to do. 'Helpless', he calls me. Affectionately, I think. How can I research this? How do I plan this? I’m sure I can work it out if I think on it long enough.

Molly’s noticed. She brought it up when I was at the lab one night, “You should tell him. John. You should tell John. How you feel.”

It was startling. “How did you know about that?” Silly question, of course. Anyone with eyes in their head could see it. Had to say something, though.

“He knows, too. But you should tell him anyway. He wants you to.”  
There was no reply for that. Encouraging though. I must bring her a coffee. Can’t remember how she takes it.


	5. Chapter 5

John is sitting a whole cushion away from me on the sofa, his eyes trained on the television. Unpleasant, but easily amended.

“Why are you staring at me, Sherlock?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Am I?”

“You’re squinting at the television. You need a new prescription, but you haven’t realised yet. I was wondering how long it would take you to notice, but I suppose I may as well tell you now.”

“Right. Thanks.” He doesn’t look at me, so I edge closer. “What are you doing?”

“Foot’s asleep.” I stretch my right leg out in front of me and move my foot back and forth. My leg bumps John’s.

“Are you experimenting on me?”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been staring and staring. Like you’re trying to work something out.”

“Sorry. Lost in thought, I suppose.”

“Sherlock, what are you up to?”

“You’re so clever; you tell me.” Fuck, why have I said that? He’ll be annoyed.

“You’re waiting for me to do something. Have you set some sort of trap for me?”

I suppose I wait too long to answer. “No.”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing! Just a bit restless. Fancy a walk?” It’s cold out; he’ll stand close. He’ll point out the full moon (he always does, bless him). It rained last night; the sky will be clear and starry.

“It’s freezing out. Plus I’m watching telly. I like this one.”

“You like all of them. It’s so close in here; I need to get out.”

“Go then.”

“If you will. I’d rather have the company.”

He looks at me for a long moment and shakes his head. “What are you trying to get me to do?”

“Just come and have a walk with me. Please.”

“All right, then. Let me just get a coat.”

Outside John huffs little condensation clouds of indignation, but I walk a bit fast and he soon warms up trying to keep pace. His cheeks get pink.

“Where are we going?”

“Hadn’t thought. Just for a bit of fresh air.”

“Sherlock, you’re more mysterious than usual. Have you got something on your mind?”

“Yes,” I almost sigh, but smile instead.

“Want to tell me what it is?”

I don’t reply, and he stops walking. “Problem?”

“Sherlock, if something is wrong, you’ve got to tell me. All right? Don’t leave me out. You said you wouldn’t do that anymore. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, John.” Almost crossly. I can’t stop myself. 

“This is how it started, you know,” he says sadly.

Mortifying. I turn to face him and put my hands on his shoulders. “I am not going to do that again. Ever. I swear it.”

He looks steadily back at me, waiting for me to continue, but I can’t. It hurts to look right at him, when he’s got that look on his face. That’s poetry and it’s not poetry. His disappointment makes my stomach hurt. “Tell me what’s wrong, Sherlock. Right now.”

“I promise nothing is wrong, John. I’m not going to do anything mad.”

John is not appeased. “You can’t hide things from me anymore. I can’t take it. I still dream of it. Nearly every night.”

“So do I.”

“Do you know what the worst of it was? Apart from losing you?” he asks in that low, sad voice. “Knowing that you were lying to me. Your last words to me were lies, and I didn’t know why. It made me feel like I was nothing to you. Just a loose end to be tied.”

Intolerable. “John, I’m so ashamed.”

“We don’t need to talk about that right now. Just tell me. Please.”

“I’m not like you, John. I can’t just say what I feel.”

“Well, you’ve got to. I can’t be your flatmate and your handler, or whatever I am, if you’re going to keep things from me. Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life!”

“Just not your secrets.”

“It’s not a secret, it’s a burden.”

He smiles a little at that and says, “You promise neither of us will come to any harm?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. Get your thoughts together. You’ve got a week to confess, or I can’t live here anymore. I know you’re keeping something from me, and I know it’s something to do with me. I’m going back to the flat; I’m freezing.” He ducks out from under me and walks away.

“You would leave me?” I call after him.

“You left me,” he replies without slowing his step.

“I came back, John.”

He stops but still does not turn. “You’ve got to do better this time.” I follow after him, slowing my usual pace significantly to allow him to walk a few steps ahead. I don’t catch him up until he’s unlocking the door. We climb the stairs silently, John just behind me. I glance back at him a few times, but he doesn’t notice. He’s thinking so hard, his face furrowed in concentration. Not even trying to hide his perturbation. When we enter the flat, he pauses halfway to the staircase to his bedroom. He’s wondering whether to go upstairs.

“Tea, John?”

“All right then.” John can’t resist an offer of tea from me. He’s still so surprised every time I make it, though I’ve done it at least a dozen times now. He throws himself on the sofa. An invitation? But he toes off his shoes and puts his feet up, blocking most of it. I get the mugs down, then rummage in the cupboard for a snack. All I can find is a rather old tin of biscuits (gift from Lestrade). I taste one, and it’s a bit stale, but I arrange a few on a plate anyway.

John grins at me when I set the plate on the coffee table. “Are we having a party?”

“Thought you might be hungry,” I say carelessly. He sits up and reaches for a biscuit, and I take the opportunity to sit in the space recently vacated by his feet.

“I do love it when you look after me,” he says fondly.

“Noted.”

“And I love it when you act like an affable robot. Fortunately for you.” The kettle begins to whistle and I stand. “Wait a moment, Sherlock,” John says slowly. “Forget what I said before. I shouldn’t have said it. I won’t leave you.” He waits for me to respond, but he clearly has more to say so I remain silent. “Don’t leave me again, Sherlock. I can’t take it again.”

I drop to my knees beside the sofa and say, “Neither can I.”

“You’re not going to chuck yourself off another building?”

“Only if I take you with me.” John is terribly pleased with that answer. While he’s giggling, I get up and see about the tea.

He’s still chuckling when I return. “So we’re agreed, then,” he says as I set down the mugs. “It’s murder-suicide or nothing.”

“Yes, agreed. I don’t see any way round it.”

“Shake on it then,” he says pushing himself to his feet and holding out his hand. I take it and there is an audible crack of static (improbable, but it did happen. Perhaps somehow arranged by John? No way to tell; he would never admit to it) “Ow, that was a good one,” John says, but he doesn’t let go my hand. “That was a bit spooky. No getting out of it now, I suppose.”

“As if I’d let you out of it, John.” My voice is hoarse, but I find I can look right into his face.

His eyes are bright. Has he been crying a bit? I haven’t paid close enough attention. "I do you love you, you lunatic.” He squeezes my hand, shakes my arm a bit. “And?”

“And?”

“And you love me, as well.” I manage to nod once. “It’s customary to say so, if you reciprocate.” I nod again. “Well, I suppose I should know better than to expect the customary from you, Sherlock.”

“Quite,” I croak. John laughs again. “Just what are you finding so amusing, John?”

“I’ll count this as your confession, if you like. This is what you were fretting about, isn’t it?” I nod again. “I was planning to kiss you, but you look like you might faint dead away.” I really might. I feel odd.“Think you can withstand it?”

“It is a capital mistake to theorise without data.”

“Can’t you just say ‘I don’t know’?” John licks his lips and brushes the tiniest of kisses on my mouth. “All right? Swooning yet?”

“Not yet. Try again.” John does try again, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t quite get me to swoon. Very near to it, though. Very near.


	6. Chapter 6

I have been surprised to discover John has no flaws. His characteristics fall into three categories (so far established): Interesting, Advantageous, and Transcendent. Eg:

1\. John’s inability to deduce is Interesting because it is not borne of an inability to observe (as previously supposed) but from want of confidence in his observations. He deduces beautifully on certain subjects (mostly to do with me; especially sex with me)(must watch this tendency for patterns)(the way he grins and shrugs when I ask 'how did you know to do that?')  
2\. John’s adherence to social mores is Advantageous (!) because he is able to translate me to ordinary people and vice versa  
3\. John’s open face is Transcendent because there’s nothing lovelier than watching his feelings play across him like a film. 

How strange that things that would be hateful in me (and are hateful in others) are perfect in John

…

“You’re like a really good crime scene, John.”

“Am I? I suppose I know you well enough to take that as a compliment.”

“Yes, a cacophony of tiny details, each unique, each significant all joined up to make something fascinating. I want to carry you round in my pocket and pull you out and look at you when I’m bored. Like my mobile. I want to look at you under a microscope.”

“Don’t you already?”

“How did you know about that? Did you see the spreadsheet? How did you guess the password?”

“You lunatic. You mean you literally look at me under a microscope?”

“...No.”

“Which bits of me have you been looking at under a microscope?”

“Is that really a question you want answered, John?”

“Right, strike that. Don’t ever ever tell me what bits of me you look at under a microscope.”

“Hadn’t planned to. You asked.”

“I suppose I ought to know better than to attribute the use of figurative language to Sherlock Holmes.”

“One would think so.”

…

 

“John, I want to pull you to bits and pin you to a card, neatly labeled.”  
“Oh my god!”  
“Not good?”  
“On my part. It’s wrong to find that arousing, isn’t it?”  
“I may not be the right person to ask.”


	7. Chapter 7

“No, John.”  
“No?”  
“No, definitely not.”  
“Why not? I had a cat when I was at university, and she was good company. It’d give me someone to talk to you when you’re in a strop. Or vice versa.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
“You used to talk to a skull.”  
“The skull is human, at least.”  
“Was human.”  
“Is, John. Being dead doesn’t change that.”  
“Why can’t I have a cat, Sherlock?”  
“Isn’t it obvious?”  
“Would I be putting us through this if it were?”  
“I’ve seen you with cats, John. You’re all high-pitched.”  
“I’m too annoying to have a cat?”  
“Don’t be thick, John.”  
“I will shake you until your teeth rattle.”  
“I only want you to go high-pitched with me. I know it’s stupid to be jealous of a hypothetical cat, but there you are. You keep forcing me to admit these things.”  
“I don’t go high-pitched!”  
“You do. It’s Transcendent.”  
“You are a mad thing. A cat might make you go high-pitched as well, you know.”  
“Some things are not to be beheld by mortals, John.”  
“Poor creature would probably end up as one of your experiments anyway.”  
“Do you really think that?”  
“Have I offended you? I’m sorry. I don’t really think that.”  
“I don’t hurt animals.”  
“I know.”  
“I’m not really a sociopath, John.”  
“No, love, of course not. Just a bit theatrical.”  
“And a genius.”  
“Yes, a lovely, slightly mad genius. Like Newton.”  
“Maybe not Newton. I haven’t invented calculus.”  
“Well you’re only young.”  
“True.”  
“Let’s get a cat.”  
“All right then.”

…

 

“You have your epiphany look, but we don’t have a case on. What’ve you done?”  
“I’d been puzzling over something, and I just sorted it out.”  
“Go on, then.”  
“It’s embarrassing.”  
“If you’re trying to get me really interested, it’s working. Do go on.”  
“I’ve been trying to work out how I could have gone on so long without you. How I didn’t miss you.”  
“You did miss me. You talked about it all the time.”  
“No, not while I was dead. Before we met.”  
“Before we met? You can’t miss someone before you meet them.”  
“But I did miss you, John. I just didn’t know until we met. It’s like when you suddenly remember you’ve got your binoculars on you.”  
“You lunatic.”  
“You only say that when you’re blushing, John. Did you know?”  
“I don’t blush!”  
“You do. It’s-”  
“Transcendent?”  
“Exactly. How do you know about that?”  
“Know about what?”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock gets on with Smoke. Bit too well for my liking. He said he’d be jealous of the cat. That might’ve been fun, actually. I do like to see his little sulks as long as he doesn’t act out too horribly. He’s a world-class pouter (god, that lip. It’s not decent to be petulant and gorgeous). As well as being quite talented at pointedly turning his back, huffing, sighing, eye-rolling, and storming out. I have seen the man roll over and pull the sheets over his head to end an argument. I suppose I should have known he’d get on with the bloody cat. There’s a matched set for you.

Smoke is the platonic ideal of a cat. She’s got dense, glossy, dark grey fur and dark blue eyes. She’s a right little shadow. Somehow she looks exactly like Sherlock. It’s uncanny. Sherlock loves to roll his eyes at that one. 'Honestly, John,' he says and tosses his head (really). Honestly what, Sherlock? If you put her in a tiny muffler, you could not tell the difference between them. She follows him everywhere and positively observes him. He won’t let me chase her off the worktop. The fragility of genius and all.

“Must every surface in the flat be horribly unsanitary?”

“I always sterilise with white spirits before experiments, John.”

No point (as Sherlock would say). I keep finding long, grey hairs at the bottom of my mug. It’s quite put me off hot drinks. He doesn’t exactly go high-pitched, but I once caught him offering her a biscuit (she sniffed it, very politely).

Sherlock actually fell asleep in bed one night (with all his clothes on. At 8 o’clock because he’d been up for thirty-nine hours). I lay beside him reading (in my new glasses. Very dashing). He suddenly pushed up onto his side and said thoughtfully,

“John, do you think Smoke is happy?”

“‘Course she is.”

He beamed. It was lovely. After a moment he said, “We should get her a little ginger cat to be her friend. A little John.” He put a hand in my hair.

“Sherlock, don’t pet me.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m not a little ginger cat for your cat to be mates with.”

“We’ll find one, John. Don’t worry.” My lovely creep. I can’t believe I’ve got to share him with that bloody cat. This is a conversation he claims not to remember. He is quite keen on that little ginger cat, though.


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you going to make room for me?”  
“Sit in your chair.”  
“So I’m not allowed on the sofa anymore? Because of the cat?”  
“Did I say that?”  
“Make room for me!”  
“Seems rude to displace her for some Johnny-Come-Lately.”  
“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock! She is a cat. I am a person.”  
“I hardly see a relevant disparity, John.”  
“Hardly see a relevant disparity, Sherlock?”  
“Not relevant to this circumstance. Move her if you must, but I’ll not be party to your rudeness.”  
“Am I being lectured about rudeness by Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Even I am surprised at your want of manners, John.”  
“Right, well. As I’m not wanted, I’ll go to bed.”  
“Little less noise, please. I’m thinking.”

…

“Sherlock?”  
“Mmm?”  
“I’ve a question.”  
“I assumed so.”  
“You’re so morbid.”  
“That’s not a question.”  
“I mean, why do you like dead things so much? Why all the skulls?”  
“Are you just noticing the skulls? You’ve been here three years.”  
“Excluding the hiatus.”  
“The hiatus. Yes.”  
“Anyway. The skulls. Why do you like dead things?”  
“I like things that can be known. Dead things hold still and let you have a look at them. Live things can be so...”  
“So what?”  
“I’m trying to think of a way to put it that isn’t Not Good.”  
“Uncooperative?”  
“That’s number seven.”  
“Sorry?”   
“On my list of things I enjoy about John. ‘John is the only person who ever finishes my sentences’.”  
“What’s number one?”  
“‘If you are not very nice to Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers will shoot you’.”  
“Too right I will.”

...

“So what else is on the list, then?”  
“Which list?”  
“The things you enjoy about John.”  
“Oh, that one. It’s all a bit Not Good, honestly.”  
“Well, as you recognise it, I’m not too worried. Go on, then.”  
“All right. Hmm, number seventeen: John has a temper.”  
“Yeah, I suppose I do. You like that?”  
“Oh yes.”  
“Care to elaborate?”  
“You chinned the Chief Superintendent.”  
“Liked that, did you?”  
“It was excellent.”  
“Always a pleasure to be of service. You showed your appreciation by taking me hostage.”  
“The situation demanded it, John.”  
“You always say that.”  
“I always do what’s necessary.”  
“Maybe I should keep a list, too.”  
“You’ll never remember. That’s number thirty-two.”

…

“John, when are we getting our little ginger cat?”  
“Well Sarah gave me Smoke, so next time one of her elderly relations dies and leaves behind a cat that suits your specifications.”  
“That could be ages!”  
“That’s number six on my list.”  
“What is? On your list of what?”  
“The things I enjoy about Sherlock. Number six: Sherlock does not notice sarcasm, but manages to employ it liberally.”  
“I understand sarcasm! Your delivery is faulty.”  
“You only pretend not to understand it. You do that often, don’t you? Play dense?”  
“Ignominious.”  
“You’re a bit more obvious than you’re aware, I think.”  
“You’re getting to know me too well.”  
“Does that make me more difficult to trick?”  
“I’ve been waiting for you to notice how odd and dark I am.”  
“I’m afraid you never really kept that from me, love.”

…

“Use the internal mouse, John!”  
“Ow, Sherlock! Get off!”  
“I can’t stand to see a left-handed person use an external computer mouse. It’s all wrong. You’re clicking with the wrong finger, John! How can you stand it?”  
“This finger gets the job done, Sherlock. It’s just as adept as the index finger.”  
“Some things are just wrong, John.”  
“Fine, I’ll use the internal mouse. But now my clicks don’t make any noise. It’s so much less satisfying to click silently.”  
“If only you could type silently.”  
“I’m a better typist than you are a shot.”  
“What?”  
“Had you not noticed you’re a horrible shot? I should think you’d have deduced it by observing that you never hit anything you’re actually aiming for. Though come to that, you’re such a horrible shot, I don’t trust you not to hit things you aren’t aiming for.”  
“I hope you don’t intend me to unsnarl that rat’s nest of a sentence.”  
“Nice deflection. Maybe I am getting to know you too well.”  
“No, that’s number thirty-seven. Anyway you always knew, but you’ve only just now started pointing it out.”  
“Well our relationship is progressing to new levels. Got to keep it interesting. Don’t want you to think I’m completely asleep.”  
“You’re a bit crafty, aren’t you?”  
“Just a bit.”


	10. Chapter 10

I’ve found her, John!  
-SH

Found who?

Whom.  
-SH

Whom did you find, then?

You really don’t know?  
-SH

If I ask, assume I really don’t know.

Have a guess.  
-SH

No, thanks.

Please yourself. I suppose you’ll see when you get home.  
-SH

She’s not a corpse, is she?

Better.  
-SH

Oh god.

Actually.

Hang on.

The little ginger cat?

Knew you’d get there eventually.  
-SH

Where did she come from? You didn’t steal her, did you?

Why would you think that?  
-SH

Well, I was only joking before...

No, I didn’t steal her, John.  
-SH

It was happenstance, really. She’d been living in a skip.  
-SH

Have you been jumping into skips again?

I really don’t see why that bothers you so much.  
-SH

What if you got hauled away with the rubbish?

I’d get a cab home, of course. Anyway. I’ve taken her for a checkup, and she’s healthy, so we’re going back to the flat soon.  
-SH

Where are you now?

Tesco. Do we need anything besides cat food?  
-SH

You brought a cat into a shop?

 

Well, I couldn’t leave her outside, could I? She’s asleep in my coat pocket. No one’s noticed.  
-SH

We’re nearly out of tea. Get some muesli as well.

I’ve decided to call her Skip.  
-SH

Why is it that my cat counterpart is called Skip while yours is called Smoke? Because you’re the fanciable, cool one?

John, one shouldn’t anthropomorphise one’s pets.  
-SH

Maybe I’ll start calling Smoke Good Sherlock.

She’d never answer to it.  
-SH

I thought cats lacked the cognitive faculties to learn their own names.

Why would you think that?  
-SH

YOU SAID IT YOURSELF!

No need to shout.  
-SH

I appreciate your frustration at the discrepancy, John, but one doesn’t choose these things, you know. Her name is Skip, and that’s all there is to it.  
-SH


	11. Chapter 11

I was rather looking forward to John becoming more transparent to me, but he’s become more of a mystery. I can see his feelings on his face, but I can only explain them about half the time. I’m getting better, I think. Slowly. John is patient, but struggles a bit sometimes. It’s easier, I think, that he struggles a bit. If he found it too easy, it’d be almost galling. I’m trying, but if I offend, let me offend. Mycroft always pretends he’s past caring what an arse I make of myself. As if no one would bother to expect any better. Sometimes John quite wants to shout at me (he doesn’t), and that’s good.

I do love a mystery. Sometimes John will say, 'You’re so funny, Sherlock,' without laughing (often smiling, though). This, I believe, usually pertains to some imagined slight hypocrisy (A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds)(can’t remember who said that). We’ve set some rules. I didn’t like that at first. Makes it seem almost like a game. John said that the rules would make things simpler, and he was right (naturally).

1\. No lying

2\. No disappearing

3\. No smoking

He asked me to set some rules for him, but so far I’ve only been able to think of one.  
1\. No whistling

He laughed lots when I told it to him, but he hasn’t broken it. Good man. He told me I could keep thinking on it. I made up a flowchart to help me sort out what’s what. John caught me consulting it once, and he was very amused. I offered to make him one about me, but it got too complicated.


	12. Chapter 12

John, please get this disgusting, slimy thing off me at once.  
-SH

Just kick it off, if you don’t like it. It’s a hot water bottle not a dead frog.

It’d have a cover on it, if you hadn’t used it to mop up that acid.

Would you rather I’d let it eat a hole in the table?  
-SH

It did eat a hole in the table.

Where are you? I’ve been shouting for you, and I’m already hoarse, John.  
-SH

Are you serious?

I’m working today. Don’t you remember? I left you some Lemsips and a stack of cold cases.

I said I’d be home at 7. Remember?

Come home now.  
-SH

I still have 3 hours left on my shift. I’ll be back at 7.

I need you. Please come at once.  
-SH

Why?

I need you to do a throat culture. Could be strep  
-SH

I can’t do it myself; I gag.  
-SH

It’s not strep. I’ve got other throats to look down now. See you at 7.

SHERLOCK DO NOT HAVE ME PAGED AGAIN.

Medical emergency.  
-SH

Then dial 999. We don’t have A&E here.

You’ll be sorry if I drown in my own lung fluid, John.  
-SH

But think how smug you’ll be.

Fair enough.  
-SH

Okay leaving now. Getting a take-away. Chinese ok?

Cannot eat. Dead.  
-SH

You want me to pick something for you?

Lo Mein and egg drop soup ok?

Want some green tea?

Sherlock?

The SMS subscriber you are trying to reach has expired due to your stubbornness. Please try to be a better friend in future.  
-SH

Your signature line rather spoils the effect. You prat.

Chicken noodle soup from the cafe it is, then.

Worse than nothing.  
-SH

The only good thing about you having influenza (not strep, nor pneumonia) is that I won’t come home to a horrible mess.

Too ill for experiments, right?

Right Sherlock?

I’ll just tidy up a bit. Ring the bell before you come up.  
-SH


	13. Chapter 13

“You’ve got a gorgeous voice, you know. You could talk absolute shit all the time, and people would still fall over themselves to do what you said. You’re like a 1940’s film star.”  
“What nonsense, John. I often have to work very hard to convince people of the simplest facts.”  
“Just one more, er, unit of nonsense. You’ve got a beautiful face. It’s so unfair. You have so much and do so little with it, while more sensitive people do more with less.”  
“John you see me put it all to excellent use every day. I know you must have noticed.”  
“What you mean on witnesses and clients and Molly Hooper? No, hadn’t noticed. You’re so scrupulous; I have never seen you take advantage.”  
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John.”  
“I once heard a wise man say that.”  
“Mmm, so did I.”  
“Gem of a fellow.”  
“Indeed.”

...

“You want to rein it in a bit?”  
“What? What are you muttering about?”  
“You want to stop shouting ‘secret lovers’ over and over?”  
“But it’s integral to the motivation of the killer, John! These two pretended to be mere platonic flatmates, but-”  
“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. No need to do the summation again.”  
“It’s the second bathroom, John. They were using it for storage-”  
“Yes, I heard you! I believe you. I just feel like I go bright red every time you start going on about it again.”  
“You don’t. Why would you?”  
“Is that a serious question?”  
“Are you referring to our relationship? Are we secret lovers?”  
“It’s a sort of secret, isn’t it? We don’t talk about it.”  
“Why would we?”  
“Most people mention it to their friends and family when they’re in a relationship.”  
“Do they? Good lord, how dull. Makes me glad I’ve got no friends if that’s the sort of thing I’d be expected to discuss with them.”  
“You’ve got friends.”  
“Well, put it on your blog or something. Everyone we know seems to read it. Efficient.”  
“I suppose I could do that, but it’s not very personal, is it?”  
“That’s the primary advantage.”  
“Maybe we should have Mycroft and Harry round for dinner and tell them in person.”  
“Mycroft and Harry? Is that a serious suggestion?”  
“Ha, I suppose not. But we’ve got to start telling people eventually.”  
“Why?”  
“Aren’t you listening? For all the reasons I just said.”  
“I didn’t hear any reasons, but tell whomever you like. I rather doubt anyone will care.”  
“I really don’t find that answer satisfactory.”  
“John, I’ve given you three and a half minutes of frivolous conversation in the middle of a case. At a fresh crime scene, no less. Who knows what they’ve moved while we’ve been off-”  
“Yes, yes, fine. Sorry. Unprofessional. Let’s go back. We’ll talk about it later.”  
“Actually John, I’ve had an idea. There are some reporters lurking just outside. If you like I can throw you up against that window and-”  
“Nope, no. No, thank you. Not necessary. Remember when those photos of you with the blonde hair leaked right after we nabbed Moran?”  
“Ugh.”  
“Right. We’ll sort it out. We just need to consider a bit.”  
“If you hadn’t bristled with indignation every time someone suggested we were together for the first two years we knew each other, all of our acquaintances would still be happily assuming we’d been seeing each other the whole time.”  
“But we weren’t, and I wanted to, so it was really embarrassing. And I don’t bristle!”  
“You’re wrong, John. You bristle very energetically.”


	14. Chapter 14

On a certain morning in recent memory, I found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table peering into his microscope

"Good morning, Sherlock," I said, pausing to kiss him as I walked past into the kitchen.

"Good morning, John."  
I opened the fridge and was pleased to discover there was actually food inside it and no visible body parts."Breakfast?"

"Just coffee for me, thanks."

I got the coffee down and turned the coffee maker on."That for a case?" I asked pointing at the microscope.

He didn't look at me to see me point, but nodded anyway. "Mud samples. I'll need to take them to Bart's later. Could you go back and interview the landlady on your own?"

"Sure. Oh, by the way, Sherlock, happy Valentine's Day." I'm not sure why I said it. I suppose it was borne of the urge I nearly always have to wind him up. I expected him to snort in disgust, but he didn’t. Sherlock did not look up from the microscope or answer, but he thrust his free hand into the pocket of his dressing gown, removed an envelope in a lurid shade of red, and waved it at me.

I took it incredulously. It was not exactly paper, it was made of a sort of shiny, slippery material and he'd written 'JOHN' on it in felt tip pen. I opened the envelope cautiously and pulled out the card. It was sickening pink with a great, big, heart made of the same shiny red stuff as the envelope. Inside was printed 'Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and I LURVE you!!!!' At the top, Sherlock had written 'To Dr. John H. Watson' and at the bottom, under the printed message, 'from his devoted friend SH P.S. Please excuse the poor grammar and punctuation in this card. The selection was excessive, and I chose the one that seemed most festive.' I stared at the card for a long time, fighting the urge to laugh.

"I'm never sure what banalities you observe, so I wanted to be prepared," said Sherlock, still looking into his microscope. "Have you got one for me? You can leave it on the table, and I'll look at it in a bit." 

"Er, yes I’ve got one. I just haven't got it in the flat. I'll go and, er, pick it up. While I'm out today."

Sherlock's mouth twitched, "Rule number one, John," he said.

"I'm not lying!"

"John..."

"Okay, I am. But I can't let you show me up in sentimentality, can I?"

"Perish the thought," he said, finally looking up from his microscope to grin at me.

I rushed through the interview with the landlady (Sherlock would have been pleased at how abrupt I was; he loves when I'm rude) so that I could look for a valentine for Sherlock. I went to three different shops before I found one appropriately festive (that is to say, lurid). It was gigantic and pink and had a glittery, red cupid on the front. Very offensive. The printed message on the inside read 'Happy V-Day, Sexy!' and I’d signed it 'from your very attached friend JHW, MD.' I grabbed a cheap bottle of wine as well. So long as we were observing banalities, we might as well get pissed on bad wine and fool around on the sofa like a normal couple.

Flush with triumph, I was on my way back to the flat when I heard someone calling me.

"John! Oi, John Watson!" I looked round to see Lestrade crossing the street toward me, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I considered ducking into a nearby shop to hide, but knew it was no good. He'd already spotted me.

"All right, John?" he said when he reached me.

"Hullo Greg," I answered, dropping my arms to my sides, hoping he wouldn't notice my cargo (not likely, since both the card and the bottle of wine were comically oversized).

"Got a date? Didn’t think Sherlock would let you get away in the middle of a case."

"Er, sort of."

"Who with, then?"

My ears were getting hot. At least Sherlock wasn’t around to point it out. "It's more of a joke, really, than a date."

"Do I know the lady?"

The hotness in my ears crept down my neck and across my face. "Er, it's for Sherlock."

His grin faded a bit, and I felt defensive for some reason. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"What's the joke? Or do I not want to know?"

"Well, he gave me one, so..."

"He gave you a valentine?"

"Yeah. We've been, er, dating, I suppose you could call it."

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Dating? What this whole time?"

"No, just for a few weeks. Look, Greg, I really must dash."

"Clearly you've got plans," he replied with a bit of a smirk.

"We'll do drinks soon, I expect," I said, trying not to think of what Sherlock would say about his expression.

"I'm sure we will. Off you pop to your plans, then."

"See you later!" I said, trotting away as fast as I could go.

I half-ran back to the flat, rather afraid I’d run into some other acquaintance and be forced to explain myself to them as well. I did take a moment to compose myself in the hall before I went in, but Sherlock spotted something was up straight away. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at me in that deducing way he has. He’d been lying on the sofa in his thinking pose (hands clasped, fingers steepled and pressed to his lips), but he sat up when I came in.

“How did you get on with the landlady?”

“She didn’t hear anything.”

“No witnesses, then.”

“I think Lestrade’s team has been canvassing the area to see if anyone saw or heard anything the night of.”

“No one will have. What’ve you got there?”

“Your valentine.” I dropped onto the sofa by his feet and handed him the card.

He tore open the envelope and raised an eyebrow at the glittery cupid before flipping the card open to read it. “This is hideous,” he said after a moment.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I told you I wasn’t to be outdone in sentiment.”

“What do we do with them now?”

“I’m not sure. Bin them, I suppose.”

“That’s not very sentimental,” he said. He stood, crossed to the fireplace and pinned my card to the mantel with the knife he uses to open letters. “What do you think?”

“Still hideous. Might look better after we’ve gotten into the wine, though.”

“I’m afraid there’s only so much I can do for your benefit, John. Drinking that swill is bit too far.”

“I can’t drink bad wine on my own.”

“Then you should buy good wine.”

“I suppose we can save it for emergencies. It was just an excuse to snog on the sofa anyway.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed an excuse.” Sherlock leaned back against the mantel.

“Are you proposing a break during a case? A snogging break?”

“Sadly no. Lestrade texted me. They think they’ve got a lead. Probably nothing, but I said we’d go. Do you need to eat first or are you ready?”

“When did he text you?”

“Just now. Or at least my phone just went, and I assume it was him. I told him to text me if he got any new information, and I’d have a look.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket to check.

“That might be something else, actually,” I began, but Sherlock interrupted.

“They’ve found another body in the block of flats, and they think there’s a connection. Come on, John!” And he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out the door.

I hovered against a wall, as Sherlock crouched over the body. I was trying to listen to what he was muttering (much more to himself than to me), but Lestrade sidled up to me and started in on a bit of muttering of his own.

“How long did you say?” he whispered.

“Only a few hours. I’ll have a better idea when I get a closer look after Sherlock’s through, though.”

“No, not the body. The relationship.”

“You really think we should be talking about that right now? It’s a crime scene. There’s a dead girl, just there.”

“Only curious.”

“A few weeks.” I started to edge closer to Sherlock, so Lestrade wouldn’t be able to ask any more questions without Sherlock hearing.

“Step back, John. You’re in my light,” Sherlock said without looking up. I complied. He pulled out his magnifying glass and began to inspect the victim’s clothing.

“Sorry to have spoiled your evening,” Lestrade said.

“It’s nothing,” I answered.

“I really had no idea about you two.”

“It’s not all that different to how it was before, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yep, really.”

“Well you’ve always been close.” The little smirk was returning.

“Some people just get on, I guess.”

“Congratulations.”

“Er, thank you, I suppose.”

“Am I the last to know?”

I really wanted to tell Lestrade he was being tiresome, but it was such a Sherlock thing to say that I knew he’d laugh if I did. And if he laughed, Sherlock would glare at us for breaking his concentration and maybe come over and say something insulting or awkward or otherwise horrible. So I just said, “First, actually.”

“Really? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Is it a secret?”

“Not particularly.”

“I didn’t know you fancied blokes, John. Not that it matters.”

“It doesn’t, does it?”

“I don’t mean to offend, John. I’m just a bit surprised someone’s actually dating Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered. “It’s not the-”

“Lestrade, if you’ve done interrogating John about our relationship, I’ll borrow him for a moment. John, will you have a look at these bruises here?” called Sherlock, standing up.

“Yeah, coming,” I said stepping forward, quite pleased to have gotten away.

“And I find it’s best not to delve too deeply into the wherefores of one’s proclivities, Lestrade,” Sherlock said rather sharply. “We all surprise ourselves from time to time. It’s pleasanter to just enjoy it.”


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft, I’ve something to tell you.  
-SH

By all means.  
-M

John thought you’d want to know we’re seeing each other.  
-SH

Yes, I’d noticed.  
-M

Though do thank him for his sensitivity.  
-M

John wants to know what you mean to imply by that.  
-SH

Does he?  
-M

He says he doesn’t much care, but he wants you to know he knows you’re implying something.  
-SH

Does he?  
-M

He says he doesn’t much care.  
-SH

If you’re going to try to convince me that I’m making a mistake, let’s have it all out of the way at once, please.  
-SH

The circumstances are very different now that you’re back in England, Sherlock.  
-M

If you want to lie around your flat getting fat and writing bad poetry about that little doctor, it’s not putting any one’s life in jeopardy.  
-M

 

I suppose I might have thought it a waste a few months ago, but you seem very content.  
-M

I am not getting fat!  
-SH

You’ve put on six pounds.  
-M

My trousers still fit.  
-SH

Barely. And your shirts don’t.  
-M

Oh bugger off, Mycroft.  
-SH

You’re very well suited for each other. Much more so than I’d observed in the past.  
-M

I know you intend that remark to insult me, but I’m glad you noticed, Mycroft!  
-SH

Dear me, exclamation marks. You must be in love.  
-M

I don’t mind saying so.  
-SH

Your time for saying nasty things is over. Please affect bored indifference as is your custom.  
-SH

As you wish, dear brother.  
-M

...

“Mycroft, I should amend what I said before.”  
“Which bit?”  
“I want you to affect goodwill. Ideally, I’d like you to actually feel goodwill, but I know that would be quite a reach.”  
“Why do you say that?”  
“Oof, where to start? That’s a topic for another time. What I mean to say is that I understand what I owe you. I’m grateful for what you did for me while I was abroad. Keeping all my friends safe. Thank you.”  
“My pleasure, of course.”  
“I would like to continue to work together occasionally. I think we make a good team.”  
“I’m pleased to hear you say that, Sherlock. I think that could be very advantageous.”  
“I have more to say, Mycroft.”  
“I know. Please continue.”  
“I know you think that solitude is strength, but I’m not going to do things that way anymore. I don’t intend to be at all flexible on that point.”  
“He’s really made quite an impression on you, hasn’t he?”  
“Yes. Good night, Mycroft.”  
“Good night, Sherlock.”

...

“Have you really been writing poetry about me?”  
“You looked at my texts?”  
“No, when you get really wound up, you read them aloud and mutter about them.”  
“I don’t mutter!”  
“You kept saying ‘Poetry? Ha!’ Is it true, then? You write poetry about me?”  
“Ha!”  
“You do, don’t you?”  
“I’ve never written a line of poetry in my life.”  
“May I see it?”  
“It doesn’t exist.”  
“I’ll find it.”  
“No, you won’t.”


	16. Chapter 16

Got your trousers on?

 

At the moment, but they are easily removed. What have you got in mind?  
-SH

Nothing along those lines, unfortunately. We’re having dinner with Harry tonight.

We’ve just got a cab now & we’re coming to fetch you. Be there in 20.

 

Bit of notice would have been nice.  
-SH

She popped round my office as a surprise.

Oh and the receptionist asked her if she’d met my lovely tall boyfriend, so she knows about us.

 

Wonderful. I presume she still thinks I’m a monster?  
-SH

She doesn’t think you’re a monster.

 

She did call me a monster. Don’t you remember?  
-SH

She didn’t mean it. She wasn’t quite herself.

 

Wasn’t quite herself?  
-SH

Drunk then! Will you be pleasant tonight, please?

 

I can try.  
-SH

Please try. You and Harry are all the family I’ve got.

 

One grows tired of being disapproved of.  
-SH

Don’t I know it?

 

When was the last time I made you sit through a meal with Mycroft?  
-SH

Well Harry’s not Mycroft. I can’t just ignore her. She’s fragile.

 

Everyone is fragile, John. May we set a time limit to this little outing?  
-SH

An hour?

 

I suppose I can survive that.  
-SH

Thank you Sherlock.

Thought we’d take her to Angelo’s, so she can meet some one else who loves you.

Then she’ll know I’m not just hypnotised by your cheekbones. : )

 

A forgivable failing, I’m sure.  
-SH

...

Sherlock was waiting on the street in front of the flat when Harry and I arrived in the cab. He was already wearing his pinched tedious mortals smile. Harry's not all that observant, but no one can miss Sherlock's put upon looks. It wasn't a great start. It got worse, though, when Sherlock got into the cab.

"Harry, you remember Sherlock," I said, sliding over to make room for him to sit.

"Oh yes," she reached past me to shake hands. "The dead chap."

Sherlock's mouth twitched as he took her hand."That's me," he said. "The dead chap."

"Sherlock the resurrected," Harry continued.

"Let's be nice," I said.

"You've got yourself a magic boyfriend, John. Not bad for first time out."

"I hope you're in the mood for Italian," I said loudly. Sherlock had begun to drum his fingers on my knee. "This place is really nice. The owner reckons Sherlock walks on water."

"Doesn't he?"

"Not yet," Sherlock answered. "That'll be my next trick, I expect."

"It's a funny story, actually," I broke in. "He was arrested on suspicion of murder, but Sherlock proved he was actually housebreaking across town at the time of the murder." Sherlock smirked.

"Quite a magician," Harry said.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, "quite a magician. Someday you'll have to let me saw you in half."

"Oh, I don't think it will come to that," I said, and fortunately, we were pulling up to the restaurant. Sherlock jumped out almost before the cab had stopped moving, paid the cabby, and walked into the restaurant without a backward glance.

"Charming," said Harry as we got out. "He's so attentive; I can see how he won you over."

"Harry, please. Let's not, all right? You could try to be polite to him. Anyway, you're the one who insisted he come along. Was it just to have a go at him? Because if it was, we can just call it an evening, okay?”

"You're very generous. After what he did to you."

"We've got that sorted out now, Harry. It's none of your business."

"None of my-"

"Coming?" Sherlock had poked his head through the door of the restaurant to interrupt.

"Yep, here we come, right Harry?"

“He’s made such a puppy out of you, hasn’t he? I’d hardly have known you.”

When I had fought my temper down enough to reply, I said, “Well then. I don’t think we can do dinner after all. Shall we go, Sherlock?” I walked away without waiting for a reply from either of them, but I could hear Sherlock’s step behind me. It took him only three steps to catch up to me, and when he did, he tucked his hand into my hand. We walked back to the flat in silence.

...

“There’s been a letter for you. It’s on the mantel.”

“Oh thanks.”

“I didn’t know you were called Jack.”

“I’m really not. My mum called me that sometimes. I was named for her father, and he was called Jack, but I don’t much like it. Harry calls me that when she’s trying to get me to see reason. Reckons it’s a special pet name, I suppose.”

“And she’s sent you a letter trying to convince you to finish it with the maniac.”

“Looks that way. Just bin it. I don’t even want to read it.”

“No? You aren’t touched by her concern?”

“I’ll call her and clear the air in a few weeks. It’s just a bit too much getting relationship advice from Harry.”

“Not her area?”

“Maybe if she gave up drinking.”

“You see why she’s so upset, don’t you?”

“She doesn’t really understand you. It doesn’t matter; I’m not looking for permission.”

“You’re Clara.”

“Sorry?”

“The ex-wife. The long-suffering one shackled to a hopeless addict.”

“You really think so?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Maybe.”

“She’s got it wrong, though. We’re nothing like them. You may be long-suffering, but you’re just as addicted as I am.”

“Neither of us are addicted to-”

“Danger?”

“All right then. Fair point.”

“Indeed. You should open the letter. You’ve got a sibling you can talk to. You should take advantage.”

“Is Sherlock Holmes advocating for a family chat about feelings and relationships?”

“It would seem so.”

“I suppose we all surprise ourselves from time to time.”

“I once heard a wise man say that.”

“Gem of a fellow.”

“Indeed.”

...

Dear Jack,

I’m sorry to have lost my temper last week. I wish I hadn’t said those things, but I suppose there’s no help for it now. I’m so worried about you. I don’t think your relationship with Sherlock Holmes is good for you. It seems you’ve organised your life around chasing after this man. It was mad enough before. Then he faked his own suicide and pretended to be dead for a year. Likely you know why better than I do, but whatever the reason, it was a really vile thing to do.

When I heard he’d come back, I thought there was no way you’d forgive him. The Jack I knew would have slammed the door in his face. But he says frog, and you jump, just as before. It’s like he’s got you under a spell. At least get your own flat, so you can have some privacy. And you’re always welcome to come and stay with me. Please think about what I’ve said.

All my love,  
Harry

 

Dear Harry,

I wasn’t going to answer your letter; you owe this reply to Sherlock. He’s not a monster; he’s a good man, and I’m a lot more like him than you realise. That is as much as I’ll ever defend my relationship to you or to anyone. I don’t owe you explanations, Harry. I’m a grown man, and I can choose who I spend my time with. If you can’t be civil to Sherlock, I won’t be spending my time with you. I do not need to be rescued.

If you want to try again, the two of us can get a coffee. 

John


	17. Chapter 17

Sometimes John will bring me a cup of tea, and I'm about to wave it away when I realise I'm parched. I've given up wondering how he knows. I must lick my lips, I suppose. He's not slept in his bedroom in months, and his things have been trickling down to mine. I say mine. Ours, now. He spends more time in there than I do. The sheets smell of him. Not only on his side of the bed (the left), but all over. Excepting on my pillowcase which still smells of my hair product (that was a hint, John, wasn't it? If only you'd been paying attention). 

The things are mostly practical things. John is not a person who likes clutter, and he may be (secretly) even less sentimental than I am (!). He’s loyal, but he’s never blinded by loyalty. He’s pragmatic and clear-sighted and he gives me things like scalpels and torch batteries as gifts. And the stress ball he bought for me while I was dead. He didn’t give it to me, but I found it in the pocket of his dressing gown. It helps.

The charger for his phone was the first thing he brought down. Then his pillows (he says mine are too soft). Then socks, two pairs at a time until my drawers were crowded with them. This sadly discomposed my sock index (and me to a further degree than I generally care to contemplate). When he’d brought down all his socks, I suggested we bring down his chest of drawers (nearly turned my ankle on the stairs getting it down, too). All his clothes immediately followed the chest of drawers.

Then little things. A jar of change, a shoe polish kit, a few books, a blanket. It’s a rough, wool blanket, not at all my taste. But it’d been on his bed and it’s absolutely soaked in his smell. I wrap myself up in it when he’s away and I’m bored. It soothes me. Six days ago, he brought down the lock box in which he keeps his gun. I must find my best lock pick; the one I’ve been using is leaving dings on the lock.

There’s a little black book on his bedside table (brought it down two days after the gun). I’m quite sure he didn’t have it before I died (before the hiatus, as John now chooses to refer to it). I was thoroughly acquainted with the contents of his bedroom, and I never saw it there. I would have seen it, if it had been there. I’ve never seen him write in it, but the pages are well-thumbed, and there’s often a pen sitting on top of it.

Naturally he must be writing about me in it. I believe he began writing in it after I died, as a sort of substitute for his blog (not updated since I died, except for a video clip of a newscast announcing my resurrection and an unkept promise to tell the story of my return from the dead). I long to look in the book, but I’m terrified to. He might tell me what it said, if I could ask him.


	18. Chapter 18

“Ouch, John, that stings!”  
“I think it’s the black eye that stings, love. Not the ice.”  
“The ice stings the black eye.”  
“The ice will bring down the swelling. Only you could turn a witness into a suspect.”  
“Suspected of what? Punching me in the face? I think we’re all sure of what happened there.”  
“Couldn’t you see he was about to hit you? Why did you have to keep correcting his grammar?”  
“He kept using poor grammar, which was hardly my fault, John.”  
“This is going to get worse before it gets better, I’m afraid.”  
“At least he avoided my nose and teeth.”  
“Not because he loves you, I think.”  
“Not likely.”  
“Can you see all right out of it?”  
“Yes.”  
“Any head ache?”  
“A bit. It’s not bad.”  
“All right, well, I suppose this means we’ll be having a night in.”  
“Why?!”  
“Don’t you want to rest your poor face?”  
“I can’t answer that question unless you rephrase it, John.”  
“Head injuries call for a night in. Doctor’s orders.”  
“Don’t you think it’s unethical of you to treat someone you’re involved with?”  
“Nice try, Sherlock. The case will wait until tomorrow.”  
“I’ve solved it anyway. It was the sister.”  
“Shall I text Lestrade?”  
“No, he can wait.”  
“He apologised for laughing. Your expression was very funny. And I almost never hear you swear like that.”  
“Perhaps if we give him time, he’ll solve it himself.”  
“Perhaps. But you’d hate that.”  
“True.”

...

“Are you fancying my arm is the fret of your violin?”  
“The neck, John. Guitars have frets. Violins have necks. Just like you.”  
“Why are you playing violin on me?”  
“I was just thinking of something I must play for you.”  
“Something you composed?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’d love to hear it.”  
“It still wants practising.”  
“Do you think it will be ready soon?”  
“Perhaps. I composed it two years ago, and I’ve been practising it since then.”  
“And it’s not ready?”  
“Not yet.”  
“Well, you can practise on my arm, if you like. If you think it will help.”  
“It may.”  
“Somewhere in here is a joke about f-holes.”  
“You know f-holes, but you think a neck is a fret?”  
“F-holes are funny.”


	19. Chapter 19

Molly responded very enthusiastically to the photos I sent her of Smoke and Skip, so I asked her round the flat to meet them. Sherlock still felt that cats have no social standing (outside of deserving a seat on the sofa more than I do, of course) and was inclined to be dismissive of the premise of the visit. Well Sherlock is inclined to be dismissive, full stop. I suspect it’s one of his favorite sensations.

Still he condescended to change out of his dressing gown and set the mugs and the tea out on the worktop (he’d put them up out of my reach when I asked him to clear up the mess in the kitchen) in preparation for her visit. Then he planted himself at the kitchen table and bent over his microscope. 

“Ah, Molly,” he said vaguely when she came in. I was afraid for a moment that he’d ask her to get him a coffee.

“Hullo Sherlock,” she said, “Experimenting?”

“Mould,” he said. “Hand me a pen?” Molly glanced at me, and I rolled my eyes.

“You’re not in the lab, you clot, you’re in your own flat. Get it yourself,” I told him. But Molly fished a pen out of her bag and handed it over.

“Thank you, Molly,” said Sherlock pointedly. He took his little book out of his breast pocket and scribbled in it. The kettle began to whistle.

“Tea Molly?” I offered.

“Yes, please.”

“Won’t you sit?” Molly hung her bag and her jacket on the unoccupied kitchen chair and arranged herself in Sherlock’s armchair. “Tea Sherlock?”

“Coffee?”

“I haven’t made coffee. I’ve made tea.”

He sighed, “Nothing for me, then, thanks.”

“All right, but if you change your mind in five minutes, you’ve got to make it yourself.” Sherlock sighed again and waved me away. I arranged some biscuits on a plate. I’d had to borrow the biscuits from Mrs Hudson. All that was in the fridge was a takeaway container full of ears, a traumatic discovery I’d made half-drunk at midnight the night before. As a concession to my distress, Sherlock had written EARS all over the container. The lettering somehow had a sardonic look about it. Fortunately Molly takes her tea without milk.

“So, Molly,” I said when I’d set out the tea and biscuits and settled into my arm chair. “How are you? How’s work?”

“Oh fine,” she said, dunking a biscuit into her tea. “Everyone’s still dead. You’re the only one who ever jumped off the slab, Sherlock.” Sherlock snorted, but did not reply. “How are things with you, John? Still at the clinic?”

“Yeah, Wednesdays and Saturdays. It’s my oasis of calm from this one,” I indicated Sherlock with my elbow. “He can’t get at me so much there, although he did have me paged once.”

“I’m impressed you can do both. I should think running after Sherlock would be a full-time job.”

“Yeah, very nearly a full time job. If our little detective agency would give me a pay rise, I could leave my job at the clinic.”

“He pays you?”

“No, I don’t. If you’re trying to draw me into your insipid conversation by continually mentioning my name, John-”

“I haven’t mentioned your name.”

Smoke chose that moment to wander into the room.

“Oooh, who’s this?” Molly asked putting her cup down on the coffee table.

“That’s Smoke. She’s in love with Sherlock, so I’m sure she’ll snub us both.” Unfortunately when Smoke spotted Molly, she puffed up to twice her size and bolted into the bedroom. “Sorry,” I said. “We don’t have much company. She’s not used to new people.”

“Except for clients,” Sherlock interjected.

“Shut up Sherlock. I’ll just bring her back.” I got up and went to find Smoke. She was under the bed soothing herself by giving Skip a very rough and thorough grooming. “Come on now, darlings,” I called, lying flat on my belly and reaching under the bed with one arm.”You’re not being very good hosts.”

“I see you two have got things sorted now,” said Molly from behind me. I sat up and turned to look at her. She was standing in the doorway with her arms folded, looking around the room.

“Sorry?”

“You’re together now?”

“Got there, have you?” Sherlock called.

“Shut up, Sherlock!” I yelled back.

Molly turned and walked back into the living room. I abandoned my attempts with the cats and followed her. “You know you both came to me for advice, but neither of you mentioned that you’d worked it out. I’d been wondering,” she said.

“Had you?” asked Sherlock, looking up from his microscope. “I didn’t know that.”

“My fault. I shouldn’t have expected more than for you to be casually awful. Don’t know why I thought things might have changed after last year.” Sherlock’s face was an interesting combination of enlightened and horrified. He slid off his chair and ran to put his arm around Molly. She didn’t seem to find it comforting, though. “You’re both so selfish, I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but could not think how to begin. “Last year was hard for me,” she continued. “I knew he hadn’t killed you, but it was almost as bad. You were just gone, and I didn’t know what had happened to you or where you had gone. And I had to watch John break his heart over it, and I knew it was a lie and couldn’t say! And you!” she pushed away from Sherlock and pointed at me. “After last time, I thought you had learned something. I didn’t even get any bloody cake!”

I heard Sherlock mutter, “Last time?”

“And the both of you complain to me about the other as if you don’t know full well why that’s hard for me! You are bad friends!”

“Molly, I’m so sorry,” I began.

“Oh, so what?!” she stormed into the kitchen, collected her things, and left.

After a few moments silence, Sherlock said, “Why is it that our relationship makes everyone around us lose their minds?”

“She’s right, you arse!”

“I know. She was terribly noisy about it, though.”

I sighed. “How are we going to fix this, Sherlock?”

“Be better friends?”


	20. Chapter 20

“Our relationship really does seem to have driven all our friends mad.”  
“Yes, I know. Ordinary people have such remarkable capacity to care about things that have nothing to do with them. It seems exhausting.”  
“Only you could make that into an insult.”  
“Is it hard to care so much? It seems hard. No wonder no one can think, all their energy goes to feeling.”  
“Oh, don’t sham heartlessness. You can’t fool me. I’ve seen you with cats; you go all high-pitched.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“It’s transcendent. Why are you looking at me like that?”  
“How do you know about that?”  
“Know about what?”  
“Nothing, nevermind.”  
“I’m a bit worried to tell Mrs Hudson, actually.”  
“Oh, yes, I agree. I thought it shouldn’t be delayed any longer, so I’ve just sent her a text.”  
“You sent her a text?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, no use crying over spilt milk. What did you say?”  
“I haven’t spilt any milk! I just said ‘I’ve taken up with John. Hope that doesn’t alarm you.’”  
“I suppose brevity is a virtue.”  
“Oh, that’ll be her reply.”  
“What does she say?”  
“She says, ‘Yes, I know, dearie. I can hear you.’ So that’s one less worry, isn’t it? I suppose we should lay a carpet down in the bedroom, though. Wouldn’t you agree, John?”


	21. Chapter 21

“Please leave a message for Molly Hooper.”

“Ah, Molly. Sherlock here. Sherlock Holmes. I see I’ve missed you. Ring back. Please.” Molly Hooper is not taking my calls. I’d never called her before, but I’ve left three voicemails now. I don’t usually leave voicemails. I’ve asked John what I should do, but he doesn’t know.

“Never was much good at getting them to stick around,” he said.

I’ve been trying to soothe myself by playing the violin, but somehow feel I did not deserve soothing. I set my violin down in its case and begin to pace in front of John where he sat in his chair. “Come on, John, help me! I’m still new to the caring lark.”

“Follow your heart, Sherlock.”

“John! This is no laughing matter.”

John sighs, “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve really got no idea what we should do.”

“Maybe we could just ask her?”

“Do you think she’ll see us? She hasn’t been taking my calls either.”

“I suppose I could drop by the morgue.”

“Shall I come?”

“I think not, if you don’t mind. I’ll go first.”

“Will you give her my apologies?”

“Of course. I think I’ll go now, actually.” I pull on my coat and my scarf.

“Maybe don’t turn the collar up,” John says. “Try not to swoop.”

“I don’t swoop!”

“You’re joking, right?” says John. “Sherlock, you have two speeds: swooping and incapacitated.”

“I don’t right now have the time to methodically refute that idiocy, but know that I could. Do you remember how she takes her coffee?”

I reach the door of the morgue clutching a hot paper cup of coffee for Molly (black, two sugars!). The cup's rather scalding my hand, even through the sleeve. Too hot to drink, which is a pity because hot drinks have a calmative effect (until the caffeine starts working). Am about to knock on the door (John says people appreciate knocking) when Molly throws it open from the other side. We both jump, and she drops her clipboard.

“This is for you,” I tell her, pushing the cup into her hands and bending to pick up the clipboard. The report on top catches my attention and distracts me momentarily. “Sliced clean in half? Can I see him?”

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” Molly asks, taking the clipboard from me.

“I came to apologise.”

“Fine, come in. You can have two minutes.” She opens the door for me, and I walk in and sit down on a stool.

“Thank you, Molly. You were right before. I’ve been so careless, and I’m terribly sorry. I’d have been finished without you. Twice over. Can I do something to make it up to you?”

Molly listens with her arms folded, “Stop treating me like a convenience. If you want me to sit and listen to your problems, you’ve got to involve me in the nice bits of your life, too.”

“Nice bits?”

“Yes, the nice bits. I would really have liked it better if you had told me that you worked it out with John. I was hoping you would. I hadn’t seen either of you happy in so long, and now you’re both going round smiling. It’s nice.” I know John would tell me this is pleasant and normal, but I still can’t help but find it astounding. How can she care what we do?

“I think I understand what you mean, but I’m not sure how to proceed.”

“Neither am I. Let’s think on it for a bit.” Molly tries to sip her coffee and grimaces when she burns her tongue. She takes the lid off and blows on it, “Thank you for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

“This makes me feel like we’re properly friends. Did you know you’ve never brought me coffee before?”

“I didn’t know how you take it.”

“Same as you.”

“Yes, John told me.”

“It’s nice that you thought to,” She blows again and sips. “Thinking of others is nice.”

“I could bring coffee.”

“All right then, that can be a nice thing you do. Bring me a dozen coffees, and you’re forgiven.”

“A dozen coffees? What all right now?”

She laughs, “No, you silly. Bring a coffee every week or every time you want to use the lab or something. When you’ve brought me a dozen, you’re forgiven.”

“Will John be absolved, too?”

“John hasn’t asked to be absolved.”

“He asked me to apologise for him. I said I would intercede on his behalf.”

“That doesn’t work,” Molly shakes her head. “He’s got to apologise on his own; he can’t just ride yours.”

“I suppose that’s fair. Shall I give him a hint for you?”

“This is interceding, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him he owes me a cake.”

“A dozen cakes?”

She laughs again, “No, one will do. Do you want to see the man who got cut in half? Bet you can’t tell how it happened.”

I bend and hug her. “Oh, Molly, thank you!”


	22. Chapter 22

It had been one of those picture perfect cases. It averted an oncoming torpor, and culminated in an exhilarating footchase. Sherlock disapproves that those are always the ones I remember most clearly. The ones where we fly after a suspect like storybook heroes.

This particular suspect ran into an abandoned building ('Idiot,' Sherlock had huffed), and we were just behind him. We'd set up an ambush with Lestrade and his team, and we had to drive the suspect into it. We banged up the stairs after the suspect in time to see him disappear round a corner. The first door I opened seemed to be into an empty room, but I took a few steps in just to be sure.

I heard the sound of the shot and I felt something hot whiz past my right arm, but I didn’t work out what had happened until I saw Sherlock go after the shooter. He tackled the man, grabbed the gun from the floor where it fell, and whacked him in the face with the butt. The shooter screamed, but I still heard his nose break.

“Shut up!” said Sherlock, pointing the gun right into the shooter's face. “Are you all right, John?”

“Yeah, fine,” I said, rubbing my arm and staring down at the shooter. He was cringing and crying, the blood on his face running down into his mouth, and his nose grotesquely bent and flattened.

“Are you all right, John?” Sherlock asked again, his voice trembling slightly.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m fine. He didn’t even knock me down.”

“You’re very lucky,” Sherlock growled, his eyes fixed on the shooter. “If you had hurt John, it would have been the last thing you’d done. Aside from feel a great deal of pain.” And he gave the shooter another whack with the butt. “Two for safety.”

Fortunately for the shooter, Lestrade and his team burst into the room at that moment. Sherlock stepped back, still clutching the gun and allowed them to put the shooter in handcuffs.

“Give the gun to Lestrade, Sherlock,” I prompted when the man had been dragged down to the police car to wait for his ambulance. “It’ll be evidence.”

Sherlock held the gun out to Lestrade. I’d never seen his hand shake like that.

Lestrade took it. and looked at it “Whose blood is this?” he asked.

“Er, Sherlock got a bit carried away,” I said.

“He shot you, John!” Sherlock croaked.

“You’ve been shot?” asked Lestrade, alarmed.

“Nah, only grazed. Look, Sherlock, he barely even burnt my coat. He’s a worse shot than you, missing at this range.” Sherlock opened his mouth to answer and swayed. “Ooh, he’s going to faint,” I said, stepping forward to catch him as he collapsed. I sagged under him, nearly falling myself, but Lestrade helped me ease him onto the ground.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. “He shot you, John,” he said again.

“No, love, he didn’t. Only tried, same as dozens of other people have tried. Now shut up. I’m trying to take your pulse. Lestrade, I think I hear the ambulance. Can you pop down and let them know they’re needed up here?”

“Yeah, be right back.” Lestrade left.

“Can you sit up? Lean against the wall.” Sherlock obeyed. I shrugged off my coat, pulled my jumper over my head, and began to unbutton my shirt.

“John, what are you doing?”

I slipped out of my shirt and turned sideways so he could see my arm. “See? I’m fine. He didn’t get me.” Sherlock rubbed my unshot arm with his fingertips.

“You’re all right.”

“Yes, so I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m fine. The wanker did burn my sleeve, though.”

“I liked that coat, too.”

“Yeah, so did I.”

“I’ll bring it to my tailor, if you like.”

“You’ve got a tailor?”

“Of course. He does brilliant things with patchwork, too. My coat’s got seven patches in it, but you wouldn’t know to look at it, would you?”

“No, I’d never have guessed.”

“I’d have killed him, if he’d hurt you, John.” Sherlock’s fingers were worrying at my arm again.

“Yes, love, I know. But I’m afraid that’s a bit Not Good.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you don’t.” I could hear the paramedics on the stairs, but I kissed him anyway.

“What the bloody hell is going on in here?!” Unfortunately, the paramedics had been escorted by Sally Donovan instead of by Lestrade.

“Oh bugger me,” I muttered and Sherlock giggled.

“Ah, Sergeant Donovan,” he said, getting to his feet. I pulled my jumper on and stood, balling my coat and shirt together. “Nothing to worry about. I was feeling a little faint after chasing down that suspect for you, and Doctor Watson here was just having a look at me.”

“Half naked and snogging? This is a crime scene, Freak! I suppose you just got-”

“Sherlock thought I had been shot,” I interrupted. “I was just showing him that I was all right. And I was not half-naked, I'd still got my vest on.”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said, “Lestrade will be wanting our statements.” And he took me by the hand and pulled me out the door. 

“Stay away from him, John,” Donovan called after us. “Some way or other, Sherlock Holmes will put you in a body bag."

Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs, smirking. “Yes, but we’ve a safeword for that,” he said.

“He’s joking!” I called, following Sherlock downstairs.

“She’s right you know,” he whispered, squeezing my hand.

“Is she?”

“Murder-suicide, John.”

For some reason, that made me feel very safe indeed. “Mind the stairs, Sherlock. Don’t faint again.”

“You know I didn’t faint, John.”


	23. Chapter 23

“What time is it?”  
“About six.”  
“Come into this cafe with me for a moment. I need to get Molly Hooper a cup of coffee.”  
“Okay. Any special reason?”  
“I still owe her ten cups of coffee.”  
“You probably owe her a lot more than ten cups. Why have you suddenly decided to pay her back?”  
“We have an arrangement.”  
“Do you ever answer a question in a way that doesn’t raise more questions?”  
“Oh, you should pop into that bakery next door and get her a nice cake.”  
“You create more mysteries than you solve.”  
“Yes, I’m quite remarkable that way. Something with jam, I think.”

...

“Morning.”  
“Mmm.”  
“Sherlock, where’s the kettle?”  
“I believe I told you to shut up.”  
“What? When?”  
“Last night. You were snoring.”  
“You tell me to shut up when I’m asleep?”  
“Yes, but it never works.”  
“I can’t hear you when I’m asleep.”  
“That’s hardly my fault. You can hear me now, can’t you?”  
“Unfortunately.”  
“Well then.”

…

“Are you all right? Only you look a bit miffed.”  
“I hate it when people talk like that.”  
“Like what?”  
“You know.”  
“I really don’t. Want to tell me?”  
“Like I’m an unruly child, and you’re an indulgent nanny.”  
“Well, that's Anderson, I suppose.”  
“Everyone does it. Everyone thinks I’m so far beneath you. It’s embarrassing.”  
“You think people think you’re beneath me?”  
“Everyone does.”  
“But you’re so tall.”  
“I’m being serious, John.”  
“I’m sorry, love. I just don’t know what to say; that idea is so mental.”  
“Is it?”  
“Of course it is! You’re incredible!”  
“You really think so?”  
“You know I do. You’re the world’s only consulting detective.”  
“Oh that. Yes.”  
“That’s not all I love about you, though.”  
“No?”  
“No, don’t be stupid. I love that you’re a twiddler.”  
“A twiddler?”  
“Everything you touch, you flip around and toss into the air.”  
“Do I?”  
“Yes, constantly.”  
“How is it that you know things about me that I don’t know about myself?”  
“Did you know you can’t stand still? You’re always dancing.”  
“I pace.”  
“The way you do it, it looks like dancing.”  
“What else?”  
“You get very clingy in your sleep. You wrap yourself around me like a cocoon.”  
“You’re so warm.”  
“You drool, too.”  
“I certainly do not!”  
“You leave great wet patches on my pyjamas.”  
“You find the compromise of my dignity endearing?”  
“I like that you’re a man. You’re not a brain in a jar or a robot. You’re just as warm and soft as the rest of us.”  
“It’s very inconvenient sometimes.”  
“Yes, mortality can be inconvenient. But as I’m a mortal, I’m glad you’re one, too. We’re a matched set. Remember?”  
“Yes. So we are.”


	24. Chapter 24

What was my funeral like?  
-SH

Expensive.  
-M

Why? Are you thinking of holding another?  
-M

 

I went to one today. With John. His aunt died. I’d never been to one before; it was very odd.  
-SH

Set me to wondering about my own. Would I have approved?  
-SH

No, I think not.  
-M

If you are ever required to arrange it again, please see that there are no members of the clergy involved.  
-SH

I shall do my best.  
-M

Thank you. I can’t say these things to John.  
-SH

No, I don’t imagine that would be at all wise.  
-M

…

“Remind me, please, why we’re doing this.”  
“Going to my cousin’s wedding? We were invited.”  
“You were invited. And that’s a flimsy reason to do something. What else might you do just because you were invited, John?”  
“I was invited with a guest, and you’re my guest. And I haven’t seen that side of my family in years. Some of them sent some really nice letters after you died. I’d just like to see them again. Thanks for coming along; I know it’s not really your area.”  
“Well, I suppose it’s an opportunity to gather some new data.”  
“That’s the spirit. Haven’t you ever been to a wedding before?”  
“Not since I was very small. I gather it’s a rather different experience as an adult.”  
“Not too different, actually. You’re expected to conceal your boredom a bit better. And you have to bring a gift.”  
“A punchbowl.”  
“Yes. So?”  
“I just can’t think of anything more pointless.”  
“People use them when they entertain.”  
“Entertain what? Homicidal thoughts?”  
“You’re projecting again, love. People put punch in them when they entertain friends in their homes.”  
“An open communal drink dispenser is a terrible idea. It’s vulnerable to tampering.”  
“I don’t think that happens much.”  
“I’ve had at least three cases that involved a punchbowl being tampered with.”  
“Well, I’ve been to dozens of parties with punchbowls and never seen one tampered with. And we’ve already got the punchbowl, and it’s all wrapped and ready to be presented.”  
“I’ll just suggest that they use it as a fruit bowl instead in the card.”  
“The card is for well-wishes. Not punchbowl advice.”  
“I wish they wouldn’t leave themselves and their party guests vulnerable to poisoners. Is that not a well-wish?”  
“Not well enough.”  
“Perhaps we should go over the rules again.”  
“In the ceremony, just do what I do. In the reception, try not to glower, don’t talk about murder, and don’t roll your eyes when people try to make small talk with you. And tell the bride she looks beautiful.”  
“Even if she doesn’t?”  
“Especially then. Anyway, all brides are beautiful. It’s a rule.”  
“Number four? Seems like a silly rule. Won’t come up much, I imagine.”  
“No, not one of our rules. Just a rule of the universe.”  
“Like gravity.”  
“Exactly. Will you dance with me?”  
“If you let me lead.”  
“Ha, I was only joking. Do you dance?”  
“Per you, constantly.”  
“I mean dance properly, on a dance floor.”  
“I have. It is not my favourite activity, but I’m guessing this will be easier for me, if I let you tell me what to do.”  
“There’s the ticket. Just do what I say, and the worst part will be wearing the tie.”  
“I’m not going to wear the tie. I don’t wear ties.”  
“It’s quite a nice tie. And you can wear your diamond tie pin with it.”  
“I’ve put that in my tool kit, in case I need a diamond for an experiment. And I’m not going to wear the tie, John. I don’t wear ties.” 

...

“Hullo, who’s this then?”  
“Her name is Anna.”  
“Where did you get her?”  
“Her mother is dancing. I said I’d mind her. Is that my punch?”  
“You volunteered to mind a child?”  
“Is that my punch?”  
“Yeah, have it.”  
“Did it come from a punchbowl?”  
“No, it was a jar thing with a spigot.”  
“Ah, good. Probably not contaminated then. Could you hold her for a moment? I’m parched.”  
“Yeah, give her over. I’m still confused, by the way.”  
“It’s a bit close in here, and my mouth is dry.”  
“Yes, I understand how thirst works, Sherlock. How did you come to be holding a baby?”  
“Didn’t I just say? Her mother is dancing, and I said I’d mind her.”  
“But why?”  
“I was just chatting to her mum about the new Bond film. She said she’d be dancing, if she didn’t have Anna with her, and I’d had enough of the conversation, so I said I’d mind her. She looks very like you. Are you related?”  
“I dnno who she is. She’s dancing? Point her out to me.”  
“I meant Anna. She’s got the same eyes as you. It’s very striking now that you’re holding her.”  
“Well, if she’s related to me, her mum must be.”  
“Unless it’s through her father’s side, John.”  
“Right. She’s got the same eyes as me?”  
“‘As I,’ John. And yes. The colour of seawater. They’re blue and green and brown by turns. It’s remarkable.”  
“How poetic.”  
“Do shut up, John. Doesn’t she look sweet in her little dress?”  
“Very sweet. But I almost can’t believe my ears.”  
“Are you surprised I like babies? Why would you be? They aren’t stupid like most people. Get me a piece of cake, will you?”


	25. Chapter 25

“Do you want to have a child?”  
“How? Have you got a uterus I didn’t know about? Though, even if you did, I’m not sure how I’d access it. Well, not me but my gametes.”  
“Yes, Sherlock, I know how reproduction works. And we could hire a uterus. Engage a surrogate, I mean. Or adopt. If we wanted to.”  
“Mm, I think not, though I suppose I could be convinced otherwise. I do like babies, but they tend to develop into children.”  
“You don’t like children?”  
“They’re all right, I suppose. Better than adults. But they’re terribly sticky and noisy and needy once they’re mobile.”  
“Don’t want the competition, then?”  
“Exactly. Do you want to have a child?”  
“Oh sometimes. In an idle sort of way, I suppose. I wonder occasionally what a blend of our genes would be like.”  
“Hired uterus or no, I don’t think we could arrange that.”  
“Too bad for the world, though. Any child of ours would be unstoppable.”  
“Indeed.”  
“Hopefully he’d use his powers for good.”  
“That’s the question. I’d give it only about a fifty percent chance that he would.”  
“Better not risk it then.”  
“Better not. We wouldn’t want to unleash an evil, little Hamish on London.”

...

“I know when I’m being manipulated, John.”  
“I want you to eat, so I made your favourite food. That’s not really manipulation.”  
“I’m busy.”  
“You’re just sitting there.”  
“I’m thinking.”  
“Can you think and eat?”  
“I’m fine, John.”  
“Your hands are shaking, Sherlock.”  
“No, they aren’t”  
“Yes, they bloody well are, Sherlock! Just fucking eat something! A piece of toast!”  
“John, please don’t shout. My head.”  
“Please just eat something.”  
“May I have a cup of tea?”  
“I'll make us some.”  
“I don’t mean to upset you, John.”  
“I know.”  
“It’s only been four days. I’ve gone longer than that.”  
“Don’t. Don’t try to talk me out of it, Sherlock. We're a bit on edge right now. Let's not make things worse.”  
“Would you feel better if I had a biscuit?”  
“Yes, I would.”  
“All right then. The things I do for you.”  
“Really not finding that funny at the moment.”

...

“Where have you been?”  
“Round Molly’s returning that little cat cage thing. Why? Did you need something?”  
“Just wondering why you reek of cheap hand soap.”  
“Reek? That’s a bit strong.”  
“You’re a bit strong. You smell like plastic and strawberries. It’s disgusting; could you get rid of it please?”  
“Get rid of what?”  
“That smell.”  
“How?”  
“However you like. Or sit somewhere else, at least.”  
“Are you aware you’re being awful? Or do you not care?”  
“I’m always awful, John.”  
“I think I’ll go for a walk.”  
“Do.”

...

“What’s this?”  
“It’s about beekeeping.”  
“So I see. Why are you giving it to me?”  
“Thought you might want something to read.”  
“Ah. Why beekeeping?”  
“Honestly, I saw it in a shop and liked the picture on the cover. You’ve been insufferable for nearly a week, so read it and act like a human and I might not have to murder you. And don’t say I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be clever; I’d just shoot you.”  
“You could do it, you just couldn’t get away with it.”  
“Shut up and learn about bees.”  
“If it helps, I’m annoying myself,too.”  
“I can see that. And it does help a bit.”  
“Thanks for the book.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
“John, I’ve been thinking it over, and you’ve got to start doing the blog again.”  
“We haven’t had anything on in weeks; I have nothing to write about.”  
“You haven’t written up any of our cases since I died; write one of those. It doesn’t have to be a fresh one.”  
“I can’t remember them well enough.”  
“I’ll help you.”  
“You don’t remember the interesting things. Only the tobacco ash.”  
“Why don’t you want to do this? I need a case, John! I need stimulation!”  
“When are you going to stop using boredom as an excuse to be selfish?”  
“Don’t deflect, John.”  
“Fine. No deflections. I don’t want to do the blog anymore.”  
“Why not?!”  
“Isn’t it obvious?! I don’t want to pick up any more mad stalkers!”  
“Moriarty?”  
“Yes! Can’t we just keep going the way we have done?”  
“No!”  
“Why not?”  
“Because I need a case! Get me a case!”  
“Now I’m in charge of that, too? Can’t you do anything for yourself?”  
“I’m helpless, remember?”  
“Right. Of course. Well. I’m going out for a bit. I’ll sleep upstairs tonight. See you in the morning.”

...

“Sherlock? Are you awake?”  
“Yes.”  
“Did you take all the blankets off my bed?”  
“No, John. You haven’t slept there in three months. Are you drunk?”  
“A bit. Not so much now.”  
“Who did you drink with?”  
“No one. Can’t you tell?”  
“I can. I, er, don’t think you should do that.”  
“I probably shouldn’t.”  
“I don’t want you to.”  
“I won’t. Sorry.”  
“John, about earlier-”  
“I’m sorry. I should have explained properly right from the start.”  
“It’s all right.”  
“Well, I’m still dealing with last year.”  
“When I was dead.”  
“When you were gone. I feel like I fed him all the details he needed to ruin you.”  
“I’m not ruined. And even if I were, that wasn’t your fault, John.”  
“Well, I’m not a mad, terrorist, genius, murderer, thief. I’m just a nattering blogger.”  
“It wasn’t your fault. I forbid you to think so.”  
“Maybe. Anyway, I know we’ve got to do the blog to get clients. I’m just not up for it at the moment. Do you want to take over? For a bit.”  
“I can’t do it the way you do. Tobacco ash.”  
“I’m sorry I said that. I’ll help you. If you need it.”  
“Just for a bit?”  
“Just for a bit.”


	26. Chapter 26

An Unnecessary Introduction

Sherlock Holmes here. If you’ve read this blog before (or you read the papers or watch telly or you’ve seen my website, The Science of Deduction), you know who I am. I'll be doing a few guest postings in this space. I’ve had quite a few cases that have yet to be written up. My colleague, John Watson, may supplement my reports with his own perspective, if he has time and he deems it necessary.  
I am accepting new clients. Write to me at 221B Baker Street or contact me here. Interesting cases only, please.

 

Comments (24)

John Watson:  
Colleague?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Are you not still my colleague?

John Watson:  
It’s hardly the apt word to describe our relationship.

Sherlock Holmes:  
All the words one might use to describe the aspect of our relationship that you are referring to are both embarrassing and reductive. Colleague is serviceable.

Jacob Sowersby:  
WELCOME BACK SHERLOCK!!!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Jacob.

Bill Murray:  
John, where have you been, mate?

John Watson:  
Oh, around, I suppose. 

Bill Murray:  
We must do drinks soon!

John Watson:  
Definitely.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Have the goodness to arrange your social calendar elsewhere, please. This is supposed to be a place to solicit new clients.

Mike Stamford:  
Welcome back, Sherlock! Are the two of you together now?

John Watson:  
Yes, we are. :)

Mike Stamford:  
Brilliant! I knew you’d be good together!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you for your encouragement. We’ve just been wondering and wondering. We’ve hardly slept.

John Watson:  
He means ‘Cheers, Mike. Nice to hear from you. Thanks for introducing us.’

Mike Stamford:  
You’re welcome!

Harry Watson:  
*Comment deleted*

Harry Watson:  
*Comment deleted*

Harry Watson:  
*Comment deleted*

Sherlock Holmes:  
*Comment deleted*

John Watson:  
All right, everyone. Play nice or I’ll disable the comments.

Harry Watson:  
*Comment deleted*

John Watson:  
Comments disabled now. I did warn you.


	27. Chapter 27

“I thought we might redo the second bedroom as a study and interview clients there.”  
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”  
“No?”  
“People are already half-terrified of me. If I invite them up a dark staircase into a little room to sit alone with me, I don’t think they’d be very happy.”  
“You could be right.”  
“Could I? Generous of you to say so.”  
“Maybe we could tear up the carpet and make it a sort of lab instead. It’d let us clear some of the mess out of here.”  
“It’s not mess, John. It’s tools, notes, and equipment.”  
“And dishes and newspapers and disguises. Spread all over in little heaps.”  
“Oh, you’re so fastidious.”  
“Said the man with the sock index. You should have seen your face when I started putting my socks in there. I thought you’d faint.”  
“It’s efficiency, John. I have better things to do with my time than pair odd socks.”  
“Like work out a filing system for your hosiery.”  
“I worked it out when I was fourteen, John. The work is over and done. One of the many advantages of a well-organised mind.”

...

I warned you that you would break him.  
-M

I haven’t broken anyone.  
-SH

If you’re delicate, you may be able to disengage without causing any more damage.  
-M

Don't embarrass yourself, Mycroft. You know absolutely nothing about this.  
-SH

Do you think he wants to live the rest of his life in your orbit?  
-M

John here. Got hold of Sherlock’s phone. Nice of you to worry about me, but no need. I’d like nothing better than to go round and round Sherlock like a teddy bear.  
-SH

Like a teddy bear?  
-M

...

“Hullo Mycroft. Still me.”  
“Good evening, John. Could I speak to Sherlock please?”  
“Sorry, he’s busy.”  
“It’s about a case.”  
“What case?”  
“A new case. May I speak to him, please? Just for a moment. I don’t intend to disrupt your evening much longer.”  
“Don’t worry yourself about our evening. I’ll take a message.”  
“I’ll ring back another time, then. Goodnight.”

...

“That was fun. At least he didn’t call me a monster.”  
“No one would. Everyone thinks you’re sweet and innocent, for some reason. Probably the blonde hair and your great, big eyes. And the jumpers.”  
“See the jumpers serve a point. You should wear the one Mrs Hudson got you.”  
“It’s a rollneck, John.”  
“You’ll look artistic.”  
“Ooh, that’s always been a dream of mine. How did you know?”  
“Everyone will be able to see right away that you’ve got the soul of a poet.”  
“According to you, I’m either a poet or a robot. Which is it?”  
“Both, of course."


	28. Chapter 28

“You seem to be feeling more cheerful.”  
“I’m just pleased we’ve made up.”  
“So’m I.”  
“I don’t like being out of step with you. It’s like if my hands were attached to the wrong arms.”  
“You do invent the most colourful similes. It’s quite a treat to hear you.”  
“They allow me to explain complex ideas to simple minds. I’ve had lots of practise.”  
“That’s number seven on my list.”  
“What is?”  
“‘Sherlock swings constantly back and forth between surprisingly complimentary and wildly insulting.’”  
“I just say what’s on my mind.”

...

Microwave is missing. Please explain.  
-SH

 

Some detective blew the door off it last night.

 

And reattached it.  
-SH

 

You’re not serious, are you? We can’t use a microwave that’s had an explosion in it.

 

Why not?  
-SH

 

Won’t we be irradiated?

 

I thought you liked adventure, John.  
-SH

 

Dying of radiation poisoning in my flat because you blew up the microwave and tried to use it anway is not my idea of adventure. I threw it out.

 

Anyway*  
-SH

 

I always know I’ve won when you start correcting my spelling.

 

I assume it was a typographical error not a spelling error.  
-SH

 

Your pedantry fills me with triumph.

 

Everyone needs something, I suppose.  
-SH

...

“Sherlock, you’ve been looking into that puddle for ten minutes. Take a sample, and let’s go. It’s freezing.”  
“Shhh.”  
“Look at me, Sherlock. I’m soaking up the sun with my face like some sort of reptile.”  
“Here, have my scarf.”  
“Oh cheers, love.”  
“Better?”  
“Yeah, thanks.”  
“Will you shut up, then?”  
“Well, I was about to tell you something you didn’t know, but I can shut up.”  
“I doubt that.”  
“Which bit?”  
“Both.”  
“Now I’m going to do neither. You may never know.”  
“I may never know what I don’t know?”  
“That’s right. Never.”

 

“All right, love?”  
“Fine. Didn’t mean to wake you.”  
“Nightmare?”  
“It’s nothing really. Just that. Well, I keep dreaming that I walk into the morgue and find you kissing Molly Hooper...oh shut up laughing.”  
“Believe me, Sherlock, I have never had any desire to kiss Molly Hooper.”  
“I know. I can’t think why I keep dreaming it. It’s so annoying. You don’t even look up when I come in.”  
“I would never do that to you, you know.”  
“You could never hide it, John. Every thought you ever have flickers right over your face like a film.”  
“Well, I wouldn’t. Neither would you. And it’s obvious why you’re dreaming it. You hate it when two people you know stand in the same room with you and don’t spend the whole time chorusing your praises.”  
“How you do exaggerate.”


	29. Chapter 29

Hello Sexy,  
I’ve missed you terribly. Have you missed me?  
See you soon!  
xxx

 

“Sherlock, you’ve had a postcard. Look.”  
“It’s not him, John.”  
“How do you know?”  
“Well, to start with, I saw him blow a great hole in his head when I was standing closer to him than you are to me now. After that he likely couldn’t have managed cutting out all these letters for his little note with such dull scissors. Yes, definitely dull scissors. Look how the corners of some of the cutouts are a bit torn. Tends to affect the fine motor skills, having that much of your head detach from the rest of it. This whole enterprise is embarrassingly amateurish, actually. Not his usual way at all.”  
“Maybe he fancied something new.”  
“Come on, John. Think for a moment! This would be a tremendous regression. Even Carl Powers was more elegantly handled than this. That was neat and tidy, except for the trainers, but only I cared anything about the trainers. He got away with it, and I’m going to find the person who sent this laughably easily because this is just silly messing about.”  
“But he loved silly messing about.”  
“True. But he did it beautifully. This is just pathetic. This card is fairly dripping with evidence. Surely you can see that?”  
“Don’t need to, do I? I’ve got a condescending detective to tell me all about it.”  
“Oh come on, John. Don’t be boring. Look, now you know how to do this. I’ve seen you do it before. Look at the card and tell me how it differs from his usual way. Just think for a bit.”  
“Sherlock, you’re just going to scoff at how dull I am.”  
“You’re not dull. You just need to have a bit more confidence in the things you notice. Tell me a few ways in which this differs from his usual style. Think broad angle.”  
“Fine, I’ll have a look. Give me the card. All right, well, he never sent anything with cut out letters like this. And he never mailed anything. He found other ways of getting you things.”  
“Very good! What else?”  
“Well, when he got in touch with you, it was generally to tell you something. Something new. This is just, well, taunting, isn’t it? Though I suppose the something new could be that he faked his suicide.”  
“Oh, no, if he had done, I’d have known ages ago and he’d know I know. I spent all that time investigating his associates. He’s dead, John. But you’re doing well. Go on.”  
“He liked to do things publicly, didn’t he? Liked to embarrass you. Seems sort of discreet and private to send a nice postcard.”  
“Good. What else?”  
“Er, I suppose that’s it. I don’t see anything else.”  
“Well, there you are, John! You’ve missed a lot, but that’s quite enough for you to be getting on with. It’s not him; you can see it yourself.”  
“Wait, what have I missed?”  
“Think on it for a bit. I’m sure it will come to you.”  
“Have you got any ideas who it could be, if it’s not him?”  
“I know exactly who it is.”  
“Who then?”  
“This is your case, John. You’re going to tell me.”  
“How could I do that? I’ve got nothing to go on.”  
“Don’t be stupid, John. You’ve got loads to go on. Here, hand me that pad. Let’s make a list. No, give it to me. I’ll write. You talk. Thinking aloud helps. I’ll be your skull. Now we know it can’t be him by virtue of the fact that he’s dead. That’s big.”  
“All right, put that down. The print on the card is of the painting of the Reichenbach Falls from the case that made you properly famous. Is that important?”  
“Is it?”  
“I think so.”  
“Why?”  
“Well, whoever sent the card is alluding to that case as a sort of credential.”  
“Go on. What do you mean by that?”  
“They want to convince you that they’re watching you and interfering with you because that’s what he’d have done.”  
“What do you want me to put down?”  
“Well, whoever sent the card is familiar with your involvement in that case. That could be anyone, though, it was in the papers.”  
“Not just familiar with my involvement. They knew he set it up just so he could make that silly Rich Brook pun.”  
“Really? He stole a priceless painting to make a joke no one noticed? He must have been annoyed about that.”  
“He was. He stole it to set me up to recover it, so I’d become known as a public figure. Raise me up before my fall and everything. Anyway, that was quite a big hint. What do you make of it?”  
“The pun?”  
“No, not the pun. Who could have known something like that?”  
“Someone who was involved in the setup?”  
“Or?”  
“Someone involved in the investigation of the setup?”  
“Seems more likely, don’t you think?”  
“If you say so.”  
“It’s your case, John. Do you think it’s more likely?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Well, let’s move on, then. What about the wording of the note?”  
“Yeah, I noticed that. It’d have to have been someone who knew how he spoke to you, but hardly anyone ever saw him with you. Just me, I think.”  
“Well we know it’s not you, don’t we?”  
“Ha, yes, we do know that much. Put that down.”  
“Who else would know how he spoke to me?”  
“He spoke to you through the hostages before you met. I suppose the hostages know?”  
“And who might have heard them?”  
“Oh, Lestrade! He was there. But he wouldn’t do this?”  
“He would have mentioned it in his case notes, perhaps?”  
“Of course! So someone who’d seen the notes. Someone at the Met, then? Oh, I don’t much care for that idea.”  
“No, not a pleasant one, is it? Fortunately, the incompetence displayed here is a nice hint at the identity of our prankster friend.”  
“Anderson?”  
“Well done, John. Knew you’d get it.”  
“Why would he do this?”  
“Well, we all must amuse ourselves some way or other. I doubt the entire scheme took over an hour to devise and execute. And he was drunk, I think. See the jagged cuts where his hand shook while he was cutting out the letters? I need you to send a text. Use my phone; it’s on the mantel.”  
“Send it yourself. I’m the detective here.”


	30. Chapter 30

I’ve a message for you to relay to Anderson.  
-SH

To Anderson?  
-DI Lestrade-

Tell him that I received his card, and I do not care for his familiar tone.  
-SH

Tell him also that I do not care to be addressed that way by a married man.  
-SH

What’s this then?  
-DI Lestrade-

Just tell him, will you?  
-SH

...

 

I hear you’ve had some interesting post recently.  
-M

Latest report from your lapdog?  
-SH

DI Lestrade is hardly anyone’s lapdog, Sherlock.  
-M

Not particularly interesting, no.  
-SH

You miss him, don’t you?  
-M

I saw him just last week.  
-SH

You know who I mean.  
-M

I’m glad he’s dead. The world’s better off without him. Far better.  
-SH

Indeed.  
-M

I miss being challenged.  
-SH

I can help you with that, you know.  
-M

You know I’m still not interested.  
-SH

I thought you’d given that up.  
-SH

Not quite yet.  
-M

...

“He really isn’t coming back, is he?”  
“No, John. He’s not.”  
“I suppose we can’t all be Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Some of us can.”  
“What if he did come back?”  
“We’d get him this time.”  
“We would, wouldn’t we?”  
“Definitely.”


	31. Chapter 31

Cracked My First Case

Last week, we had some post that I thought at first was from Jim Moriarty. Sherlock rightly pointed out that Jim Moriarty is dead. Well, after you see one man rise from the dead, you start to suspect it’s not entirely impossible for another man to manage it as well. Then Sherlock told me he reckoned there was enough evidence in the postcard (it was a postcard) that I could deduce for myself who’d sent it. After a couple of hints from Sherlock, I worked out that it was a sort of prank by XXXXXXXX, one of Sherlock’s many admirers down at XXXXXXX. Silly messing about, as Sherlock called it. Quite startled me for a moment, though. But you can all sleep well in your beds tonight. London is safe from zombie consulting criminals. For the time being.

 

Comments (21)

John Watson:  
A good friend has asked me not to reveal the identity of the prankster, and for the sake of my friend, I will comply.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Honestly John, what was the point of this entry? You didn’t even lay out the steps of your own deductions after I took the trouble of writing them all down for you.

Harry Watson:  
Well I think it’s brilliant!

John Watson:  
Cheers, Harry! Nice to hear from you!

Harry Watson:  
:)

John Watson:  
:)

Sherlock Holmes:  
Good god.

John Watson:  
Shut up, Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson:  
Oh dear! If you boys get any more alike, who will defend my poor walls from being shot at?

John Watson:  
I will never shoot your walls, Mrs H. Promise.

Bill Murray:  
John Watson, consulting detective!

John Watson:  
Careful now. Sherlock will be jealous.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Ha!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Why not write up a real case, John? You’re terribly far behind.

John Watson:  
Maybe I’ll do the one where I was shot.

Harry Watson:  
You were shot?? When? Who shot you? Why didn’t you tell me??

Sherlock Holmes:  
No, he wasn’t shot. And that was a very straightforward one, John, so I can’t imagine why you’d start with that one.

John Watson:  
Sorry, Harry. Thoughtless of me to say that. I wasn’t exactly shot, just barely grazed. I’ll tell you about it later. It’s a sweet story.

Harry Watson:  
A sweet story about being shot?

Sherlock Holmes:  
He wasn’t shot.

John Watson:  
Harry, I’m phoning you now.


	32. Chapter 32

I woke very gently. I believe it took me a few minutes to notice my consciousness. There was the sound of rain slowing to a light drizzle. The faint smell of ozone. One of the cats was pressed against my back, asleep. Skip, I knew. Smoke never leaves you, and you weren’t there. I was almost disappointed. Too warm and comfortable, drowsing in that yellow-grey early morning light, to really be disappointed. But wistful. Missing your damp curls under my chin. You run so warm, I don’t know why you cling to me like that in your sleep, balling up small and tucking yourself against my chest. Generally, I wake at least once in the night with a mouthful of your sweaty hair.

As I drifted toward wakefulness, I realised the music I was hearing wasn't leaking in from my dreams, but coming from the next room. You were playing the violin.  
Something I'd not heard before. The same bit over and over. Composing then. In the gaps in your playing, I fancied I could hear the scratch of your pencil. I thought of your fingers pressing patterns against the inside of my wrist and shivered a little under several layers of bedclothes. The tone of your pause shifted somehow. You were listening for me, I knew. I tried to deepen my breathing without sounding artificial. Fooled you apparently; you started up again. Felt the little thrill of triumph I always feel when I get one over on you. I threw off the blankets silently and got out of bed. You wouldn't be able to hear me over the sound of the violin right next to your ear. I so rarely get to surprise you and see things you don't mean for me to see. I was trying to be so careful and quiet. But the bedroom door squeaked when I opened it.

Your violin sort of grunted as you drew the bow off it suddenly, "John?"

"Good morning, love," I said stepping into the sitting room in time to see you turn away from the window. You always play looking out onto the street.

"Did I wake you?" You set your violin down in the seat of your chair. Smoke was sitting along the back of the chair, gazing at you as if you were giving her a lesson.

"No, I was enjoying it. Why did you stop?"

You blushed faintly. Delightful. Transcendent, you'd say. "It's not finished." You began to twiddle the knob on your bow, preparing to put it away. No, not a knob, an end screw. I looked it up.

"Is this what you were practising on my arm?"

"It's not finished, John," you said.

"It's really lovely, Sherlock. I'd like to hear it."

"Not yet," you pressed your lips together like you do when you're fighting back a smile for no particular reason and tucked your violin and bow into the case.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," I said."You've been working on it for years. Wouldn't you like to share it?"

You cocked your head, considering for a moment. Then you reached for your bow and began tightening it again. "Sit," you instructed. I smiled and made for my chair. "No, not there. The sofa. Sit at the edge, back straight, please."

"Sherlock, what are we doing?"

"Hush, John. You'll chase away my courage."

'Courage?' I wanted to say, but I didn't. You sat behind me and slid forward so you were pressed tight to me. Your right arm, clutching your bow, came up under my  
right arm. You took my left hand in yours and gently stretched my arm so it was fully extended, yours bent slightly under it. You raised your bow; you were holding it with the hairs pointed up. I could tell that it was bothering you to hold it that way. Your fingers fluttered on the frog.

"Head up, please," you murmured, hooking your chin over my shoulder and settling your jaw into the cup of my collarbone. You worked your sharp chin and jawbone against my shoulder. Some of your hair curled into my ear. It tickled. I suppressed a giggle. You began to draw the stick of your bow across my forearm, your fingers pressing and sliding on my wrist. I could feel you drawing long breaths, as your chest expanded against my back. You exhaled cool and controlled against my hair, my jaw, the back of my neck. After a moment, I could almost hear the music. When you were finished, you lowered your bow arm and let it hang loose at your side, but you kept my wrist held tight in your hand, your fingers still in position for the last notes you'd played. You sighed. "That's all I have so far," you said. Your grip on my wrist began to relax, but I didn't pull away.

"It's beautiful," I said. "You're extraordinary."

"It's lucky you're so small," you said. "I don't think it'd have worked if our heights had been reversed." The idea of towering over you made me laugh. You laughed, too, your chest rocking against my back, your breath huffing against my ear.

"Thank you for playing that for me," I said.

"Thank you for hearing it."


	33. Chapter 33

“Why are we here, Sherlock? Remind me.”  
“For x-rays.”  
“And why are we here for x-rays?”  
“I suspect there’s some rhetorical purpose behind you asking me all these questions that you well know the answer to. Shall we skip to the bit where you lecture me? Or we can skip the whole conversation altogether. I’d be quite comfortable with that as well.”  
“I thought you promised not to chuck yourself off any more bloody roofs.”  
“It was a fire escape. And it was an accident, John. I miscalculated the distance.”  
“No more falling, Sherlock.”  
“I’ll do my best, but I suggest you address your complaints to gravity.”  
“Seriously, Sherlock, you fall off one more building, and you’ll not be allowed near any fire escapes, roofs, balconies, ledges, or windows again for the rest of your days.”  
“I do like it when you tut at me. I set the lid to the sugar bowl off centre on purpose for that reason.”  
“I’m not in the mood to be found amusing, Sherlock.”  
“I’m in the mood to be amused, John. Don’t you want to cheer me? I’m an invalid.”  
“I’m closer to strangling you.”  
“That would be an overreaction to a broken wrist, don’t you think? It wasn’t even your wrist I broke. Come on, John. Three years of cases together and only one visit to A&E.”  
“Except for the one.”  
“Right. Of course. I’m sorry, John. I didn’t think.”  
“Obviously.”  
“I think I’ll get a coffee. Can I bring you anything?”  
“Oh, sit down, you idiot. I know you didn’t fall on purpose.”  
“I’m not...sorry, my arm really kills. I keep losing the ends of my sentences.”  
“Take your time.”  
“Thank you. I think of myself as quite hard-wearing.”  
“Well, you’ll be all right, soon. Few weeks.”  
“I mean I’m not used to being worried about.”  
“Well, I do worry. Actually, I think a lot of people worry about you, if only that you’ll brick them into a wine cellar.”  
“John, I do enjoy you thoroughly. You’re the only funny person I know.”  
“Am I? Is that on your list?”  
“I had to give up the list once it had over two hundred entries. I’m sorry, John. No more roofs.”  
“Good, we’re agreed. Though I won’t ask you to shake on it.”

...

“John!”  
“Yes? What?”  
“My arm hurts.”  
“Still broken, isn’t it?”  
“When is my next pill?”  
“One more before bed.”  
“I’ll go to bed now, then. Help me out of my things. Gently.”  
“It’s only seven, we haven’t even had dinner yet. And you can’t have another until ten.”  
“Why didn’t you say ten, then? Bedtime. What an arbitrary designation. When have I ever had a bedtime?”  
“You should rest up. Your arm will heal quicker.”  
“Oh stop it, don’t doctor me, John. How patronising.”  
“You know I actually am a doctor.”  
“So you keep telling me. But you never know how to build a mantrap or cure a cold. And, needless to say, you haven't mended my wrist.”

...

“Careful, John! You’re jostling.”  
“Last night you told me to stop treating you like my grandmother.”  
“Only because you were trying to feed me broth.”  
“I offered you some soup because I was having some.”  
“I didn’t care for your tone. It was infantilising.”  
“Because I’d already asked you twice and both times you just said ‘hmmmm?’”  
“I was thinking.”  
“I wanted you to eat something wholesome. You’ve had nothing but eggs and toast for nearly a week.”  
“What’s more wholesome than an egg?”  
“Wholesome or not, you can’t live on them.”  
“Now I’ve got a real craving for egg drop soup. Will you go out and get me some?”  
“I’m leaving for work in ten minutes. Get it yourself.”  
“Ugh, work. Work is boring. Your work is boring anyway.”  
“Well, you’ll have all day to destroy the flat and think of new things to complain about.”  
“Oh my John, always finding the silver lining.”


	34. Chapter 34

(Mostly) Human

Poor Sherlock has broken his arm. He was trying to jump across an alley from one fire escape to another (testing an alibi) but he sort of crash landed. Nearly gave me heart failure to see him fall like that. It actually wasn’t that far up, but the silly idiot put his hand out to stop himself. So he’s got the cast on for another two weeks, then it’ll be a wrist brace. It was his right arm, but he’s actually coping well with not being able to use it much. He’s even taught himself to write left-handed. Though even with his right hand, he writes like a disturbed child. He keeps telling me that writing with the non-dominant hand is good for the brain, and I should try it.

Anyway, he’s learned a valuable lesson. Even Sherlock can’t jump eight feet without a running start, and even Sherlock will break his arm if he falls onto it from a reasonable distance. Got that Sherlock? You’re a remarkable human being, but you’re still a human being.

 

Comments (21)

Sherlock Holmes:  
Of course I’m a human being, John. What else could I be?

Molly Hooper:  
Oh no! Are you going to be all right?

Sherlock Holmes:  
I expect I will. I have survived worse, as you know.

John Watson:  
This got dark immediately. By the way, hi Molly! Nice to see you round these parts. You’ll brighten up the place, I’m sure.

Sherlock Holmes:  
You’re the one pondering my mortality, aren’t you?

John Watson:  
I’m using you as a metaphor for the human experience.

Sherlock Holmes:  
How ambitious. I’d rather not be part of your Life Lessons for Dullards lecture series, if you don’t mind.

Harry Watson:  
Even more charming than usual.

Sherlock Holmes:  
By the way, even if the results of the experiment were inconclusive, I still solved the case. It was the jeweler for reasons of vengeance. Obviously.

John Watson:  
Yes, you went on and on about it after they gave you the pain medication at the hospital. You also told me that you wanted to “throw that jumper on a fire.”

Sherlock Holmes:  
Well, fair isle, John.

John Watson:  
I like fair isle.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, I know.

Mrs Hudson:  
Are you two typing to each other while sitting in the same room again?

John Watson:  
Sherlock says that speaking aloud makes his arm hurt. He’s also been texting me. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Make me a cup of tea?

Mrs Hudson:  
I’m not your housekeeper, dearie.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, I know. I was asking John.

John Watson:  
Will you come up, Mrs Hudson? We’ve a few extra cakes.

Mrs Hudson:  
I’ll be right up!

Sherlock Holmes:  
So you will make the tea, then, John?


	35. Chapter 35

John has given me an xray of his shoulder wound (an old xray, from when the wound was fresh, of course). “I know you like bones,” he said when he gave it to me. “Put this with yours, and start a family portrait gallery.” He said it very casually, as if he didn’t know how delighted I’d be with the gift (he did, which is the best part!). He was joking, but I’m quite enamoured of the idea. I’d like to pin them to either side of the mantel, but I don’t think John would like that. He doesn’t seem to like to look at his xray as much as I do.

Unsurprising, given the likely traumatic circumstances of the injury (he still limps a bit when he’s very tired; I don’t let him sit up with me when I’m insomniac anymore for this reason). I long to ask about it, but I never will. Perhaps someday he’ll tell me. Perhaps if I injure myself more seriously. It’d almost be worth it to have such a piece of John’s history in my mind palace.

That’s one of the things I must never tell John. Perhaps I should start a new list. I’ve too many lists already (perhaps I should keep a list of my lists). Being with John is complicated, delightfully so. Learning a person is exciting, and I’ve never known someone so well as I know John. Lately I’ve been testing my ability to read his thoughts off his face by asking him suddenly what he’s thinking. He was surprised the first time, but he’s never asked why. I’m hovering around a 68% success rate at the moment, which is abominably poor, but much better than it was at first. It must be improved. I’ve got to listen more closely. Fortunately I see John exposed to myriad stimuli while we are on cases together. Plentiful opportunities to observe and experiment.

His sense of personal space is flexing in interesting ways. Before our romantic relationship (must find a way to describe our connection that doesn’t sound so contrived) began, (even with his obvious attraction to me)(obvious in retrospect, which shouldn’t count), he’d still shy away from any overly familiar handling. It was an insult to his dignity to be touched too casually. Something I can understand. I didn’t enjoy visiting Buckingham Palace wrapped in a bed sheet, but I couldn’t allow myself to be danced about like a doll. Coming placidly when whistled for, smiling pleasantly, and listening politely would have been even more humiliating.

He did seem to enjoy being patted. Well, anywhere between neck and waist, knee sometimes being safe as long as it was at or below the kneecap and not above. He didn’t mention it, but it did make him look content. Sometimes he’d sigh, if he was drunk or he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Bless him. Almost every pat was an experiment (on some level or other). John sighing. Lovely.

John is more permissive now. I’m allowed to throw my legs over him, if he’s already on the sofa, but I want to lie down. I’m allowed to drag him around by the hand (quite useful when he’s being slow). I’m allowed to drink from his mug and eat from his plate (I always did, but now I don’t have to hide it). I’m allowed to press my face against his back and listen to his heart metronoming away when I can’t sleep. And there’s the sex, of course. I haven’t quite the vocabulary to discuss that yet.

Sometimes I wear his jumpers when he’s out. Neither of us has mentioned it, but I think he knows. Surely they must smell of me, though not too much I hope. John’s smell is one of my favourite things about him (near the top of the now defunct list of things I enjoy about John) and I’d hate to overpower it. I never have decided whether the evergreen smell is pine smoke or fir cones. No way to test it. It’s only the merest hint of evergreen, anyway. Mostly wool and tea and a sort of buttery human smell. But there is that little hint of evergreen. It’s definitely there.


	36. Chapter 36

“Why is the kettle on top of the fridge?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Did you put this up here to hide it from me? You know I can see and reach the top of the fridge, don’t you? I’m not that small.”  
“Yes, yes, fine.”  
“Are you even listening to me?”  
“What?”  
“Oh my god, Sherlock! Did you fill the kettle with fingernails?”  
“And toenails. Put the lid back on please, or I shall have to start over.”  
“Why on earth did you fill the kettle with fingernails?”  
“And toenails. The lid, please, John, or you’ll ruin my experiment. Thank you.”  
“Why, Sherlock?”  
“Decomposition experiment. Put it back, please. The temperature should remain fairly constant, and it’s the warmest part of the house.”  
“Why did you have to choose the kettle?”  
“I needed an opaque, lidded container about that size and it was handy. Put it back, please. Didn’t you hear me?”  
“What are we supposed to use for tea?”  
“Oh hell, John, must you bore me to death with your tedious minutiae? Use a saucepan.”  
“A saucepan? What am I, a barbarian?”  
“If the cap fits...”  
“Said the man with a kettle full of human fingernails.”  
“For science, John.”

...

I’ve just found a riding crop under the bed. Why is there a riding crop under the bed?

 

I was using it to retrieve a catnip stuffed mouse.  
-SH

 

Why on earth have you got a riding crop?

 

I used to ride. I use it for other things now.  
-SH

 

I can’t decide which of those revelations I most want to know about.

 

Oh, you’re so dramatic, John. I don’t ride anymore, but I have the crop. I may as well find uses for it.  
-SH

 

What sort of uses?

 

Retrieving catnip mice.  
-SH

...

“What are you smiling about?”  
“You.”  
“Me?”  
“You and your poses.”  
“My what?”  
“Look at yourself.”  
“I’m just standing.”  
“Stroking your chin and staring out the window with your brow all furrowed.”  
“I’m just thinking, John.”  
“Thinking about how cool you look.”  
“Obviously you're the one thinking about how cool I look."


	37. Chapter 37

I wake to John shuddering next to me in the dark.

“All right, John?” I whisper, finding his hand in the blankets and squeezing it.

“Fine. Nightmare,” he says roughly. “Go back to sleep.” I slide to him and kiss his forehead. His hair is damp. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Just go back to sleep.” He’s breathing heavily. I take one of his hands in both of mine and squeeze it rhythmically. It’s a good sign that he lets me. Sometimes he won’t even acknowledge the nightmares. Just rolls away from me and stares silently into the dark, afraid to shut his eyes again.

I knead John’s hand and count to a thousand in my head. His pulse slows, but he doesn’t fall asleep. “Would you like a hot drink?” I offer when I’m done counting.

His hair rustles a bit on the pillow as he shakes his head, “I’m fine. I’d rather have the company.” I pull him a little closer and begin to rub firm, wide circles on his back. He sighs (lovely). “This is nice.”

“It’s not working.”

“It’s very relaxing.”

“It’s meant to put you to sleep.”

“I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep.”

I kiss him. His smell is rising off his damp scalp like steam.“I’m sure you’ll sleep again at least once before you die, John.”

He chuckles, “Maybe.”

“Murder-suicide, John,” I remind him, rubbing harder. “And I’m afraid I’m not quite up to either tonight, if you don’t mind.”

John laughs again. “Where did you learn to comfort someone who’s had a nightmare?” he asks. “Seems like it’d be a bit outside your range.”

“Research.”

He smiles (can’t see it in the dark but can hear it in his voice), “Ah of course. Looked it up on the internet?”

That smarts a bit, “No, John, original research. I’ve been observing you for nearly four years. I’ve run multiple experiments on what sorts of touch you respond best to.”

“Really? I never noticed.”

“I didn’t intend for you to notice. If you had, it wouldn’t have been usable data.” I begin to draw my knuckles gently along either side of his spine.

John laughs. “Somehow I didn’t realise you were so attentive.”

“Of course I’m attentive, John. It’s what I do.”

“See, I told you that you had the capacity for romance.”

I sigh, “Bite your tongue, John.”

“The best sort of romance, too,” John says. “Quiet and unassuming.”

That’s an amusing idea. “I don’t think anyone has ever described me that way before.”

“You’re usually loud and demanding.”

“Well I’ve a reputation to uphold. Wouldn’t do for people to know I have the capacity for romance. Per you, anyway. I don’t know that I’m convinced of that.”

He kisses me before he replies, “Don’t you observe that you’re in a romantic situation right this moment? Embracing your lover while starlight creeps in under the curtains.”

“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective,” I say. “ I didn’t arrange for the starlight.”

John laughs, “I know you’re a miracle, Sherlock, but even I wouldn’t accuse you of putting stars in the sky.” We’re both silent for a few moments, and I start to hope he’ll drop off. But he says, “I feel rather selfish for not having run any experiments on how you best like to be touched.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect it of you. Besides you have excellent instincts. You get it right nearly every time.”

“Do I?”

“You don’t act like I might bite you. That goes quite a long way.”

He grins, “You do bite me.”

“With your permission.”

“That’s all right then.”

“You always seem to think so.” It begins to rain. I hope John won’t notice, but he does.

“How atmospheric,” he says.

“Witch,” I say. “This is your doing.”

John doesn’t stop laughing until he’s asleep.


	38. Chapter 38

Where is the sugar?  
-SH

 

We’re out of sugar.

 

I know we’re out of sugar. At Tesco trying to do the shopping. Where do they keep the sugar?  
-SH

 

Ask one of the assistants.

 

Can’t find any. Thought I saw one a bit ago, but when I approached, she looked terrified and scurried away.  
-SH

 

Do you look extra mad today?

 

I don’t believe so.  
-SH

 

Got any blood on your clothes?

 

You can tell me how mad I look at home. At present, I just want to know where the bloody sugar is.  
-SH

 

Sorry, haven’t got the layout of the Tesco committed to memory just yet.

 

Why not? You’re here often enough.  
-SH

 

The limitations of an average mind, I suppose.

 

Surrounded by tea and coffee. Where is the sugar?? Have been looking for 10 minutes.  
-SH

 

Drawing myself a map, so I never have to suffer this indignity again.  
-SH

 

No good. They reorder the shelves when they have new products in.

 

May not be able to finish the shopping.  
-SH

 

Shocking.

...

“Is this your mess?”  
“Excellent deduction, John. What gave me away? Being the only other person who lives here?”  
“Are you going to clean it up?”  
“I may.”  
“When?”  
“Are you asking me to clean it up?”  
“I suppose I am.”  
“What do you think would happen if you asked directly for what you wanted instead of tutting and clucking at me?”  
“You’d carry on comfortably ignoring me.”  
“Perhaps. You might try it sometime, though. Just to see what would happen. Spirit of scientific inquiry.”  
“I think we both know I’m completely devoid of that.”  
“A man can hope, John.”

...

“Come on, John, we’re- oh there you are. Hmm.”  
“What?”  
“New shirt?”  
“You don’t like it?”  
“Maybe with a different cardigan. No, never mind, it’s fine. We’re late enough.”  
“What’s wrong with it?”  
“It’s fine. Let’s go; we’ll miss our train. We haven’t even got a cab.”  
“You go down and get a cab. I’ll be right down.”  
“It’s fine, John! Let’s go!”  
“I’ll be right down.”  
“Clotheshorse.”  
"Sherlock, you can't expect me to go round all day having been hmm'd at."

...

“Sherlock, did you knock my jacket off the hook?”  
“Did I? It can really only fit one good-sized coat.”  
“Didn’t think you’d pick it up?”  
“Didn’t notice it had fallen.”  
“Look at it, Sherlock, it’s all over cathair.”  
“The coat brush is in the bathroom.”   
“You’re not going to say sorry?”  
“Overusing a word dilutes it, don't you think?”  
...

“You’re going to have to give that back, you know.”  
“No, I’m not.”  
“Sherlock...”  
“We have an arrangement. He annoys me, and I nick his stupid desk toys.”  
“You can’t just take his things to punish him; he’s your friend.”  
“Getting a bit over-friendly for my taste. Did you hear him call me ‘Sher’?”  
“He’s the only person on his squad that doesn’t call you ‘Freak,’ so I’d say quit while you’re ahead.”  
“I’ve never, ever done that, John. And I don’t intend to begin today.”  
“I’m attempting to domesticate you.”  
“Impossible.”

...

“Horse-faced and arse-named? Ha!”  
“I told you it was nasty. Well, we already knew how we felt about journalists, didn’t we?”  
“Not that I haven’t had worse said about me, but this is so personal.”  
“I suppose he thinks he’s witty. Don’t worry, love. You’ve got a gorgeous face, and your name is...very distinguished.”  
“I thought you liked my name.”  
“I do. It suits you.”


	39. Chapter 39

“What’s this?”  
“Dinner.”  
“You cooked?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Since when do you cook?”  
“I’m a grown man, John. I can cook.”  
“I’ve never seen you boil water.”  
“Firstly you've seen me boil water quite recently. I made you a cup of tea just last Sunday. Second, do you think I burst into being on the day we met? I have experiences outside the ones you’ve witnessed, you know.”  
“I honestly can’t imagine how you got on before we met. I try to picture it, and I just draw a blank.”  
“Do you? How surprising.”  
“Shut up. This is good.”  
“Of course it is, John. I wouldn’t have offered it to you, if it weren’t.”

…

“That’s nice, John, thank you. Up a bit? Ah, perfect.”  
“You’ve got quite a knot here.”  
“Excess brain power. Settles in the shoulders.”  
“Right, so I thought.”  
“Bit harder? Mmm. It seems your talent in looking after me is boundless.”  
“Well, I’m a Sherlock Holmes expert. I have to go to conferences and seminars to keep all my certifications current.”  
“You wouldn’t have an ulterior motive here, would you?”  
“Of course not.”  
“Mmm, pity.”


	40. Chapter 40

“Fuck, thirty-nine. Nearly forty.”  
“Thirty-nine suits you, John.”  
“Does it?”  
“Yes, you’re, ahem, meaningfully employed, you’re in a relationship, you’ve got a lovely flat, and you finally figured out your hair.”  
“I’ve been wearing my hair this way since I was twenty-five.”  
“No, I think not. It was a bit off before, but it’s just right now. Well done.”  
“That is the most pitiful collection of accomplishments I think I’ve ever heard.”  
“Well, it’s something.”  
“Yeah, I suppose when I was thirty-eight, I was unemployed, living in a hovel, and in love with my dead flatmate.”  
“Save something for your birthday toast, John.”

...

“You look smart. Where are you off to?”  
“You’re joking right? My birthday do. Why aren’t you dressed?”  
“Is that tonight?”  
“Yes, I reminded you last night and this morning. Hurry and get dressed.”  
“I’m in the middle of this, but I’ll be done in an hour.”  
“An hour? We’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes.”  
“Oh, you go on ahead, then. I’ll meet you.”  
“Sherlock, you’re not suggesting turning up late for my birthday party, are you?”  
“If I stop now, I’ll have to start it over. I’ll meet you in a bit.”  
“Right, well. As I’m running late for my own birthday do, I don’t have time to row with you about this.”

...

Problem?  
-SH

 

Seriously, Sherlock, can we fight about this when I get home? I was hoping to enjoy my birthday party and arguing will spoil it.

 

Must we argue at all? I will meet you there. I promise.  
-SH

 

I know you make a point of only ever doing things you want to do. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected better.

 

I went to your cousin’s wedding.  
-SH

 

Oh right. I’d forgotten that I visited that particular hardship on you. My mistake.

 

John, I don’t understand why you’re angry with me. It’s a difference of a few minutes. No one will miss me.  
-SH

 

I’ll miss you. Besides I don’t want to walk in without you. It’ll look sad.

 

I didn’t know you took your birthday so seriously.  
-SH

 

I’ve completely rearranged my life for your convenience. You can’t even rearrange your evening for mine.

 

I hadn’t thought of it that way.  
-SH

 

Obviously.

 

I’m sorry.  
-SH

 

And you’ll make me a cup of coffee in the morning and I’ll have to drop it. That’s the way it goes, right?

 

Would you prefer tea?  
-SH

 

Bad time for a joke?  
-SH

 

I’m sorry, John.  
-SH

 

Forgive me?  
-SH

 

I hope I haven’t spoiled your party.  
-SH

 

Have you switched your phone off?  
-SH

 

Well anyway, I’ll see you in a bit.  
-SH


	41. Chapter 41

My cab got lost on the way to the party, which did nothing to improve my mood. I walked into the restaurant still annoyed but trying to look cheery. The hostess showed me to the table where the rest of the party had already been seated. Sherlock was there already, talking excitedly to Molly and looking a bit pink in the face. The prat. Just like him to wind me up about coming at all and then beat me there.

He popped up from his chair when he saw me, “Ah here he is at last, everyone!” he said, leaning in and kissing me. Which surprised me a bit. He’s not usually demonstrative in front of other people.

“I thought you were tending an experiment?”

“Oh, that’s not important. Where’ve you been, John? Did you get lost?”

“Yes, actually,” I said, “I lost the bit of paper I’d written the address on, and the cabbie didn’t know where the place was. Had to do a bit of exploring.”

“Well, here you are, that’s what counts. What’ll you have to drink, John?”

“I suppose I’ll have one of whatever’s making you all pink and chatty.”

Sherlock laughed, “A whiskey for my friend, please,” he said to the hostess.

“I’ll let your waitress know,” she said rather coolly. Sherlock laughed again and steered me into the seat at the head of the table. Lestrade was at the other end talking to Harry and Stamford, apparently telling them a story that was both amusing and disgusting, from the looks on their faces and incredulous laughter. They looked up as I sat down, and I was immediately out of my chair again, doing the sort of hug shuffle that you do when a group of your friends is making much of you. Well, handshakes from Lestrade and Stamford, hugs from Molly and Harry. And Sherlock.

“Is he drunk?” I muttered to Molly as we were all settling back into our chairs.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, beaming, before she could answer. “I didn’t mean to be, but it got away from me a bit. It’s all right though, everyone will enjoy me much more now.”

“Hear, hear,” said Harry.

I glanced at Sherlock hoping he wouldn’t say anything about her drinking, but he only smiled and said, “Oh, you’re a delight. We must spend more time with you.”

“What about a speech, then, John?” Harry suggested.

“Oh, nobody wants that,” I said.

“Yes, we do! Speech!” said Molly.

“All right then.” I stood again, “I was thinking the other day that last year wasn’t all that good for me. Bit, er, tempestuous. Anyway, the best part of last year was that I realised, belatedly I might add, what good and loyal friends I have. So thank you all for sticking to me through thirty-eight. Hopefully I’ll be a bit less of a sad-sack at thirty-nine. Oh sorry, haven’t got a drink yet to toast you with. So, er, happy birthday to me and thanks to all of you.” I sat and they clapped politely.

“Good speech, John,” Harry said. “Cheerful. Festive.”

“You brought it on yourself, Harry.” I wondered if Sherlock would say anything, but he was talking to Molly again. Something about someone being cut in half. I turned my attention to the other end of the table. Lestrade had resumed his story and Stamford was laughing immoderately at it.

The rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly with food and drink and gift opening. Sherlock was quiet, though, and I found myself wondering (as usual) what he had on his mind. I didn’t press him, and he didn’t decide to tell me until we were going to bed.

“I’m sorry, John. About earlier. I didn't think,” he said, plumping his pillow and getting into bed next to me.

“It’s all right, love.” I yawned and leaned against his shoulder. “You made it. I overreacted a bit.”

Sherlock put his arm around me. “You didn’t,” he said. “I think of myself as being willing to do anything for you. Our relationship can’t be all shooting cabbies and murder-suicide.”

I laughed, “No?”

“I forget sometimes that we aren’t the same person. You like birthday parties, and I like tobacco ash. I’m still adjusting. I’m not used to adjusting. Anyway, I’m not going to neglect you, even when you’re boring.”

I laughed, “Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Thank you for telling me when I offend you, John.”

“I know you don’t mean to, love.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to correct my mistakes.”

“It must not come up very often for you.”

“Mostly it's not worth the bother. But I don't like to leave things wrong between us. It's worth hashing it all out to know things are quite all right between us.”

I smiled, “That’s as humble as I’ve ever heard you,” I said.

“Well, I have so few flaws. I may as well be quite honest about them. No one ever learned anything by flattering himself.”


	42. Chapter 42

Birthday

I turned thirty-nine today. I’m hoping this will be a year where no one shoots at me. It’s going well so far. Touch wood. Thanks to all my friends for the nice presents and birthday wishes. Particular thanks to Mrs Hudson for the cake and Molly Hooper for the photo. I didn’t have one of me and Sherlock together. Where did you find it? I quite like the frame, too. Sort of baroque. Makes us look all dramatic and solemn in our suits. You can hardly tell by looking that we’re both quite mad.

Anyway wish me luck not being shot at. Might be wishful thinking, considering the company I keep.

 

Comments (16)

Sherlock Holmes:  
Mad? Speak for yourself.

John Watson:  
Oh, let someone else comment first for once, can’t you? Then it won’t be so obvious that you spent the whole time I was writing this hanging over my shoulder and correcting my grammatical errors.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, the whole of ten minutes. Correcting them to no avail, I might add.

Molly Hooper:  
Glad you liked the photo! I almost didn’t like to give it to you because it was from the trial, but it was the only one I could find where you’re both facing the camera.

Sherlock Holmes:  
I have some very fond memories of the trial.

Harry Watson:  
Happy birthday little brother!! No mention in the post? :(

John Watson:  
Thanks, Harry. Thanks for the jumper as well. It’s really nice.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, your first piece of orange clothing. You’ve got a jumper rainbow now.

John Watson:  
Shut up, Sherlock.

Harry Watson:  
What did you give him, Sherlock?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Bit of a personal question, don’t you think?

John Watson:  
Oh, stop putting ideas in people’s heads, Sherlock. He gave me a nice scarf, Harry.

Mrs Hudson:  
It looks lovely on you, dear! I’m so glad you liked the cake!

John Watson:  
Thanks, Mrs H. I loved the cake! Sherlock did, too. It’s nearly all gone now. You must come up and share the last bit with us.

Harry Watson:  
A scarf? If he’s going to get you shot at, he could get you some body armour at least.

John Watson:  
He knows I’m prone to fits of chilliness in the neck. And I was quite adept at getting shot at well before I met Sherlock. More fun with him, though. 

...

“Am I a good companion, John?”  
“Errr...”  
“Well?”  
“I’m thinking how to answer.”  
“Thinking? Don’t strain yourself.”  
“Haaa, very funny. I don’t think everyone would find you a good companion. I do.”  
“Good.”  
“Am I a good companion?”  
“Yes, and I think everyone would find you a good companion, actually. You’d make an excellent pet.”  
“You really know how to flatter a bloke, Sherlock.”  
“You would. Trustworthy, adorable, lethal. It’s a perfect combination. You’ve even got nice woolly jumpers to make you all cuddly.”  
“I’m starting to think you’ve previously considered this.”  
“Not good?”  
“Just a bit.”

...

“John, do you think I could pick you up?”  
“Are you asking for permission? The answer is no, don’t even think about it.”  
“Not making plans. Just wondering. Do you think you could pick me up?”  
“I have picked you up.”  
“You have? When?”  
“When Irene Adler drugged you and I had to put you to bed, you kept, er, escaping. I had to catch you and put you back. And I caught you when you fainted.”  
“Catching isn’t the same thing as picking up. And I didn’t faint.”  
“Right, you just fell over for no reason.”  
“I didn’t faint.”  
“Your processor overheated, and you crashed. Nothing to be ashamed of.”  
“Quite. Happens to the best of us.”  
“Even robots aren’t physically infallible.”  
“Actually I’ve had a nice firmware upgrade, and I’ve been assured it won’t happen again.”


	43. Chapter 43

“Got something on your mind?”  
“Hmm?”  
“You look more deranged than usual.”  
“After all our experiences together, you still use the term so loosely.”  
“Sorry, love. I wasn’t comparing you to him.”  
“Him? Oh, I wasn’t referring to our old friend Jim. I was only thinking of the last time I gave up smoking.”  
“Bloody hell. That was a nightmare.”  
“Wasn’t it?”  
“Yeah, you put poor old Jim to shame.”  
“Indeed.”

...

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?!”  
“What?”  
“No fires!”  
“It’s only a little one. And it’s in a pot.”  
“You’re going to burn the flat down, you maniac. No fires! Rule four: No fires!”  
“Fine, rule four. But you can hardly be angry with me for breaking a rule you’ve only just made.”  
“No fires!”  
“Yes, yes, I heard you. No fires.”

...

“So love, what are we up to on this beautiful morning? Anything on?”  
“Beautiful? What makes it beautiful? It’s hateful, all bird-chirpy and idyllic.”  
“I don’t know if I would call Baker Street idyllic. And I only meant the weather was beautiful.”  
“Ugh, weather! Why would you ever mention the weather to me? Where are my patches?”  
“Right where you left them, I imagine, as I’ve no reason to touch them.”  
“They aren’t right where I left them. Where are they?”  
“I’ve just said I haven’t touched them”  
“Then where are they?!”  
“I don’t know, Sherlock! Look for them instead of standing in the middle of the room bellowing like a lunatic. And keep your voice down. You’ll wake Mrs Hudson.”  
“Mrs Hudson has been awake for at least an hour. Heard her shower go at six.”  
“Okay, making a bigger mess isn’t going to help you find them. Look properly, don’t just sweep things onto the floor like that.”  
“I need some air. Come with me; let’s go for walk.”  
“Right, just a moment. Let me get my things on. Hand me my scarf.”  
“That really looks quite nice on you, John. Maroon is your colour.”  
“Yes, I know. You’re handling it well.”  
“Handling what well?”  
“Being only the next handsomest man in the flat. I knew it was the scarf all along, and here we have conclusive proof. You’ve been your own undoing.”  
“I always knew I would be. And it was for a noble cause.”


	44. Chapter 44

Bored

Sherlock Holmes here. I’m alone for the week and bored senseless. Any interesting criminals want to have a bit of fun? I haven’t done a kidnapping in a while. Interesting, mind. And reasonably intelligent.

Comments (20)

John Watson:  
If you’re going to invite people to kidnap you, you might at least do it on your own site and not hack into mine.

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’d much prefer to but you’ve cannibalised all my site traffic with your inane nattering and your romantic storytelling, so here we are.

Jacob Sowersby:  
If you’re looking for a temporary assistant, I’m your man!

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’m not. But thank you.

Jacob Sowersby:  
Maybe next time, then. 

John Watson:  
Don’t you think it’s a bit irresponsible to ask people to commit crimes just so you won’t be bored?

Sherlock Holmes:  
No.

Molly Hooper:  
Why are you alone for the week? Where’s John?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Some tedious medical conference or other. I don’t really know.

John Watson:  
You do because I left copies of my schedule all over the flat and emailed it to you.

Molly Hooper:  
I’m working late tonight, Sherlock. I could do with a bit of company, if you’d like to come round Bart’s.

Sherlock Holmes:  
I may do that. Thank you. Coffee?

Molly Hooper:  
Yes, please.

John Watson:  
Oh cheers, Molly.

Sherlock Holmes:  
What are you thanking her for like she’s doing you a kindness? I don’t need a minder, John.

John Watson:  
Hopefully not now we’ve got rule four.

Molly Hooper:  
What’s rule four?

Sherlock Holmes:  
No fires. And I don't need to be tutted over, John.

John Watson:  
Found your patches, then?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, thank you for asking.


	45. Chapter 45

John is away. I haven't slept properly for three days now. He would not approve. I'm keeping it from him, which seems beneath me. Hasn't been a good opening to bring it up, though. He calls in the evening to say good night. I let him gabble about his conference and just listen to his voice. He doesn't ask how I'm doing (because the first time he did, I told him that if he asked again, I'd throw my phone out the window) and I don't tell him (poorly).

I can't settle. I doze on the sofa a bit, but I don't like to go to bed without him. I haven't in months (seven months now, I think. Miraculous). Seems wrong. John would roll his eyes at that. I suppose, in certain lights, it seems like sentiment (!) (why should that surprise me any more? John arouses that in me. I should resent it, I suppose, like I did with Irene)(I don't).

Being in the flat without John for so long makes me think of that stinking little coffin of a safehouse (quite a few of them actually but they were all the same somehow) from the year I was dead. The flat, of course, is just as comfortable as it ever was (doesn’t reek of damp, for instance) but still I can’t settle. John's wool blanket doesn’t smell much of him anymore. I wear one of his jumpers under my dressing gown. It itches.

When I can sit still for a bit, Smoke is very comforting. She lies against me on the sofa (somehow she knows I don’t care to be sat upon). Nice to have something warm pressed against my knee. More often, I can’t sit still, and Smoke finds a perch to watch me pace. Even that is comforting. To be observed, to be noticed. She puts to use everything she knows about me, Smoke does. Clever girl. 

I don’t think I’ll be able to articulate to John what I’m feeling. He’d be pleased if I could. He would like to hear that his metronomic heartbeat sometimes calms me to sleep. ‘Poetry,’ he’d say, but it’s not poetry. It’s just what happens. White noise and body heat are both calmative. John would say poetry, though. 

...

Hullo Love,  
I’ve got 10 minutes until the next lecture, and I miss you terribly, so I thought I’d write. Just to tut a bit. I know you enjoy it. I can tell you aren’t looking after yourself. Please feed yourself and get yourself to bed every 18 hours or so. I’ll see you in a few days.

Yours,  
John  
PS I took one of your shirts with me. Did you notice? Have you got an index for your t-shirts?

 

Of course I noticed, John. I don't begrudge you it. 

Sherlock


	46. Chapter 46

Thanks for looking in on Sherlock. Hope he was pleasantish.

 

Yeah, he was nice. I do actually enjoy his company.  
~Molly~

 

Nice, was he? Well, glad to hear it. Sometimes he’s more like furniture than company. Though he’s been a bit restive lately.

 

He seemed out of sorts, now you mention it. He talked about you lots, but he always does.  
~Molly~

 

Really? What sort of things did he say?

 

Mostly complaining about you being away. He doesn’t like to be alone in the flat, I think.  
~Molly~

 

That’s new. Before, he just carried on talking and barely noticed I was away.

 

Maybe he’s had enough of being on his own.  
~Molly~

 

Yeah, could be. I feel like no matter how well I know him, he’s still such a puzzle.

 

I think he thinks the same of you.  
~Molly~

 

Me, a puzzle? He’s always telling me he can practically read my mind.

 

You understand each other better than you think you do. You’re both just determined that nothing is ever obvious. Bit thick, the pair of you are sometimes. When it comes to each other.  
~Molly~

 

That’s what love does to you, Molly.

 

Doesn’t seem worth the bother stumbling around like idiots.  
~Molly~

 

Well, there are lots of shades of idiot. Some are more tolerable than others.

 

You sound a bit like Sherlock.   
~Molly~

 

So do you.

...

Any international disasters need averting?  
-SH

 

Nothing that needs your attention, thank you.  
-M

 

Thought I’d offer.  
-SH

 

Not doing so well without John, then?  
-M

 

Fine.  
-SH

 

Have you smoked yet?  
-M

 

Doing quite well with the nicotine patches, actually.  
-SH

 

I’m sure John would understand if you did. He can only expect so much.  
-M

 

I don’t know why I try to talk to you.  
-SH

 

You’re lonely.  
-M

 

Well, you make very poor company.  
-SH

 

When have I ever pretended otherwise?  
-M

...

 

Come home, John.  
-SH

 

Be home tomorrow, love. Is that close enough to now?

 

No.  
-SH

 

It’ll have to do, I’m afraid. Did you have a nice time with Molly?

 

Have you been talking about me?  
-SH

 

Of course. Everyone always talks about you. The conference was about you, in fact. Didn’t you know? Did you look at the schedule I left you?

 

You must have been keynote speaker. You should have brought me with you so I could hear your speech.  
-SH

 

Come home, John. My hands are attached to the wrong arms again.  
-SH

 

And after you’d just got the wrist brace off. I’ll see you tomorrow, love. Good night.

 

Phone me and say good night. I won’t be able to sleep without.  
-SH

 

All right, but I know you’re not sleeping anyway.

 

I just want to hear you.  
-SH

…

“Goodnight, John.”  
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	47. Chapter 47

When my cab home from the train station pulled up in front of the flat, I could see Sherlock standing in front of the living room window playing his violin. He was frowning in concentration, and he didn’t seem to notice me get out of the cab. As I let myself in the front door, I could hear his music drifting down the stairs at once. It was familiar. I climbed the stairs slowly (skipped the squeaky step), trying to place it. It was the music I’d tried to overhear on the morning he played violin on my arm. I sat down on the landing and leaned against the wall to listen. I’d only been there a moment when Mrs Hudson popped out of her flat,

“Oh hello, John, dearie, “ she said when she saw me. “I thought I heard someone lurking, and I knew it couldn’t be Sherlock. He’s been playing that same tune for almost an hour. Back from your conference, then. Did you have a nice time? What are you doing down on the floor?”

I held back a sigh and pushed myself to my feet. Sherlock was bound to have heard us, and he’d stop playing any second. “Hullo Mrs Hudson. It was good, thanks. Everything all right in my absence? No wall shooting?”

She hugged me and patted my shoulder. “No, dear, not that I noticed. Well, I was on my way to see Mrs Turner, and I’m sure you want to say your hellos. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Have a nice night.”

“You too. My love to Sherlock.”

When Mrs Hudson had gone, I continued up the stairs as quietly as I could. Sherlock had not stopped playing. I paused outside the door to listen as long as he continued, but he finished the piece with a little flourish (I could just see that little twirl of his wrist). I unlocked the door and opened it. Sherlock was still standing at the window looking grave and peaky, but as I stepped into the room, he turned toward me and smiled.

“Hello John,” he said.

“Hello love. Did you know I was there?”

“Yes, I saw you pull up in the cab.”

“I thought maybe you’d missed me.”

“Of course not.”

“Were you playing that for me?”

“I composed it for you.”

“Did you?”

“Didn’t you know? Why did you think I wouldn’t play it for you before?”

“You do love to be mysterious.”

He grinned and nodded a concession, “True.”

I hung my bag and my coat on the hook by the door and crossed the room to give him a kiss. “Why now?” I asked when he was properly kissed.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you decide to let me hear it now? Why not perpetuate the mystery? Has something changed?”

“Moment of weakness I suppose. I’m not on form without you.”

“Here I am.”

“Yes, but you’ve only just got here. Your fortifying effects are still taking hold. When you’re not here, I weaken. I start thinking I’ll give you anything you want and do anything you ask.”

“Mmm, perhaps I should go away more often. Now I’ve got the advantage, I intend to press it.”

Sherlock laughed, “You should always press your advantage, John. I do.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

Sherlock laughed again, “I didn’t intend for you to hear that through for the first time with your ear pressed against the sitting room door.”

“Play it for me again right now. I’ll delete what I heard a moment ago.” I sat down on the sofa to indicate my eagerness to be his audience.

Sherlock crooked an eyebrow at me, “You’ll delete it, will you? Offering me a bargain isn’t exactly pressing your advantage.”

“I’m saving the pressing for later. You’ve just said you’d do anything I ask.”

“I said sometimes I think that I’d do anything you ask. I believe I can manage this, though.”

“Are you really going to play for me?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“It’s just a bit of a reversal. Bit sudden. I’ve been hearing about how it isn’t ready. Did you finish it while I was away?”

Sherlock cocked his head and raised his violin, “I’m not sure yet,” he said, settling the shoulder rest against himself and adjusting his grip on the bow. “But hoarding it isn’t going to do it any good. I composed it for you, so I’ll give it to you.” And he began to play.


	48. Chapter 48

“Well, don’t you look festive. Is there a special occasion I’m forgetting?”  
“Shut up, Sherlock. They’re my last pair. I haven’t had time to do laundry because some detective has been dragging me all over creation investigating a kidnapping.”  
“They’re not your usual taste. Were they a gift? Ahhh, you’re blushing, John. I must have hit the mark. They’re quite flattering.”  
“Right, if I’m not allowed to talk about your pants, you’re not allowed to talk about mine. Fair’s fair.”  
“I’ll say anything I like about your pants, John Hamish Watson, and don’t you forget it.”

...

“Sherlock, can I tell you something horrible?”  
"You can try."  
"Try?"  
"You've never horrified me, but feel free to attempt it as often as you'd like."  
"Right. I'll remember that. I was just thinking I wouldn't take back the time you were gone."  
"No."  
"So you understand then? It was awful, but it was...well it was a means to an end, wasn’t it?"  
"You think so?"  
"Yes, don't you?"  
"I do."

…

“Did you mean it when you told me I should feel free to horrify you?”  
“Feel free to try, of course.”  
“You don’t think I can?”  
“Perhaps you can; I’m quite interested to see. I don’t yet have enough data to hypothesise.”  
“Well, I don’t know if I can horrify you the way you horrify me. I don’t lop off people’s heads and put them in the fridge, for instance.”  
“I didn’t lop it off, John; it was off! I only borrowed it. With permission, I might add.”  
“Even that sentence was horrifying.”  
“I wanted to measure-”  
“The rate of saliva coagulation after death.”  
“Yes, actually. You remembered?”  
“It’s one of my most vivid memories.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally jumped on that red pants bandwagon. Couldn't resist. Sorry.


	49. Chapter 49

"John, what the hell is this?"  
"Little present. Festive, aren't they?"  
"Where are my pants?!"  
"Right there in your drawer. Can't you see them? They're bright enough."  
"My normal ones! What have you done with them?"  
"Looks to me like you've got all the pants you need. There must be two dozen pairs there."  
"I can't wear these! They're ridiculous."  
"Give them a chance, now. They're very supportive. Flattering, I think I heard some one say."  
"John!"  
"Oh, you mean you don't like to have your pants mocked by a prat early in the morning? Might you say you've learned a lesson about it?"  
"John, I don't think you know what you're getting into. Do you mean me to infer that we should be teaching each other lessons?"  
"Are there lessons needing learning?"  
"You don't want to do this with someone like me, John. Believe me."  
"Sherlock, I know this may be difficult for you to comprehend, but you've barely scratched the surface of my depravity."  
"Then the game is on."  
"So it would appear."

...

"Sherlock!"  
"Oh, no, John! Have all my ridiculous red pants stained your laundry pink? Tragic. Perhaps I've got too many of them."  
"Fortunately, pink's my colour, you bastard."  
"You're quite right about that, actually. You should wear more pink."  
"Looks like I'm going to, doesn't it?"  
"It certainly does."

...

John, did you do this?  
-Shit Head

 

Sorry, who's this?

 

You know quite well who it is.  
-Shit Head

 

Sorry, I don't know a Mr Head. I believe you have the wrong number, sir.

 

John! I've been texting with Lestrade and Mycroft all morning!  
-Shit Head

 

Oh you know some friends of mine. Have we met? I'm afraid I'm having trouble placing you.

 

Very amusing, John.  
-SH

 

Oh, it's you, love. Some one get hold of your phone and play a nasty little prank?

 

Sounds like you've learned a valuable lesson about leaving your phone lying around.

 

Some one could surreptitiously alter your signature line. 

 

This isn't over, John.  
-SH

 

Ooooh, I'm shaking.


	50. Chapter 50

The Photo

There was a photograph posted here not long ago that I’ve had to remove. Your enthusiastic response to it crashed my blog, so I’ve removed both the photo and the comments. Let’s not have the same thing happen over again. Not that I see what all the fuss was about. Loads of us had stupid hair in 1993. I fancied this girl called Sandra who really liked Kurt Cobain.

A certain detective I know should probably start sleeping with one eye open.

 

Comments (12)

Sherlock Holmes:  
You have only to admit that I am your superior, and this will end.

John Watson:  
I told you before that you’ve barely scratched the surface of my depravity, and I meant it.

Molly Hooper:  
I don’t think you two know what you’re saying.

John Watson:  
We’ve just been playing pranks on each other. Sherlock was having a joke on me.

Mrs Hudson:  
I liked your hair, John! It was a lovely photo.

John Watson:  
Thanks, Mrs H. I think so, too. I don’t know what every one was so excited about.

Sherlock Holmes:  
It wasn’t just the hair. It was the flannel. And the boots.

Harry Watson:  
How did you get a 20 year old photo of John?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Trivially easy.

John Watson:  
This is what you get when you allow a madman access to your personal effects, I suppose.

John Watson:  
That was a veiled threat, Sherlock. Did you notice?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Was it? It sounded to me like you were learning a valuable lesson.


	51. Chapter 51

“You seem to be having fun. Have you worked at all lately?”  
“My work is going very well, thank you. As always.”  
“It’s nice to see you so light-hearted.”  
“Did you need something, Mycroft?”  
“Just being friendly.”  
“Ah. Well, I think we’ve both had about all we can take of that. Until next time, brother.”

...

“John, I will have you know I was photographed in your little accessory!”  
“Were you? There’s one for the scrapbook.”  
“How did you even put that on me without me noticing?”  
“Trivially easy. Maybe you should have slept with one eye open like I suggested.”  
“You know how I feel about having ridiculous photos of me circulating!”  
“Ridiculous? Now that just hurts my feelings. You looked very sweet in your little hair bow.”  
“John!”  
“You should wear more purple. It’s really your colour, love. Does marvelous things for your eyes.”  
“How was this a lesson?”  
“You mean you haven’t learnt it yet? I’d better try again.”

…

“It’s not fair to get me twice in a row before I’ve gotten you. You’re breaking the rules.”  
“All’s fair in love and war, Sherlock. Besides the last one was just a little apéritif while I got this one ready.”  
“You’ve ruined all my shirts.”  
“Ruined? Again, that’s very hurtful, Sherlock. I think you look quite dapper.”  
“I can’t go out like this. Did you have to sew them onto all my shirts?”  
“Don’t you like polka dots? I think all our friends are going to think you look very smart. I don’t think any of us have ever seen you in a bowtie before.”  
“John!”  
“I suppose I could help you take them off, but then how would you ever learn your lesson?”  
“And what lesson is that?”  
“That I am your superior.”  
“Fine, I’ve learnt it. Just fix my shirts.”  
“Say it, please.”  
“Say what?”  
“Just say ‘John Watson is my superior’ and your shirts will be good as new in no time.”  
“John Watson is my superior.”  
“Lovely.”


	52. Chapter 52

“So were you impressed with my depravity?”  
“I can’t believe you forced me to wear a tie. You monster.”  
“Matched set, remember? And you did learn a valuable lesson, didn’t you?”  
“That I’m in love with a sociopath? Yes, I did learn that.”  
“You’ve never said that to me before.”  
“That love thing?”  
“I didn’t know I would like it so much.”  
“Nor did I. Would you like me to say it again?”  
“Actually, I rather like being startled by it. You should save it up.”

...

It’s a good thing we’ve not still got our prank war on, because Sherlock would be beating me. I don’t think he quite knows that, though. He took it to heart when I told him that I enjoyed being startled by his declarations. He has done it twice more in wildly annoying ways and been delighted with himself.

The first time, I’d frog-marched him along to the Tesco with me, and he’d complained continually. It was damp out and he’d forgotten his scarf. The humidity was making his hair fall into his eyes. Our trolley had a crooked wheel. The strawberries didn’t look very nice. They didn’t have his marmalade. They didn’t have brown eggs. There was a light out in the bakery. He didn’t like to use the self-service till. I was about ready to throttle him.

As I was reaching to pay, he stepped in front of me, knocked the debit card out of my hand so he could lace his fingers in mine, put his other hand on my shoulder, looked down into my face, and said, “John, I’m in love with you.” Then, grinning broadly, he picked up the card he’d dropped, handed it to me, and walked out of the shop.

The second time, we had just rung the bell at the front door of the Diogenes Club. Sherlock turned to me, put his hands on my waist and said, “I’m in love with you, John.” And kissed me. Then he adjusted his jacket and offered me some lip balm.

“Yes, all right then, Mr Show Off,” I said as I applied the lip balm. “Don’t overdo it.”

He smiled and said, “If you say so, John. Why are they taking so long about the bloody door?”

...

“Are you enjoying being startled, John?”  
“I think I liked the second time better than the first.”  
“I thought it might have been a bit much. Do you want me to stop?”  
“It’s just that you’re already always startling me in so many other ways.”  
“All right, then, I won’t do it any more.”  
“You can say it in normal ways, though.”  
“I love you.”  
“There, wasn’t that nice?”  
“Dull.”  
“Arse.”

...

“You’ve been remiss, John.”  
“Hmm? Oh. I love you?”  
“Quite right.”  
“Sorry.”  
“Don’t mention it.


	53. Chapter 53

“He had the washing up liquid right where I said it would be, didn’t he Lestrade?”

“Well, yeah, we found washing up liquid, but-”

“Then why haven’t you arrested him yet?” Sherlock and I were sat in Lestrade’s office. Sherlock was leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped over his eyes, as if the Met’s slow response time were something he couldn’t bear to look at.

“Right, Sherlock, if I don’t know if ‘circumstantial evidence’ is a term you’re familiar with, but it’s one I try to bear in mind before requesting warrants or raids. I’m not going to spend a load of money and send my team into a dangerous situation if all we’ll have to show for it is washing up liquid!”

Sherlock jerked up at that, “When will you lot learn that I always know the truth? Treat my word as gospel, and you can’t go too far wrong, despite your competence disadvantages.”

“Gospel?” I said. “You’re not actually God, you know.” Apparently he hadn’t known because he fixed me with a very frosty glare.

“Sherlock, as we’re still a decade or two away from a dystopian state, I can’t just arrest some one because he’s got a bottle of washing up liquid in his cupboard.”

“Not, a bottle, Lestrade. The bottle.” Sherlock covered his eyes again and turned his face toward the ceiling.

“Well, there’s nothing proving that, so it would seem an awful lot like I was arresting him just because you said so.”

“So you are! What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s against the law, Sherlock! I need proof. Or at least evidence. Something firmer than what you’ve already brought me.”

“Oh, proof,” Sherlock raised one hand from his eyes and waved the notion away. “Proof’s boring.”

“Well, I need it, don’t I?” Lestrade paused for a moment, considering before he said, “It’s not quite the same as it was before, Sherlock. Not everyone’s forgotten about...” he trailed off at the look on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh do go on, Lestrade. Not everyone’s forgotten about the baseless accusations laid against me by a maniac who was trying to ruin my life? Not everyone’s forgotten that your team lead the charge in carting me away?”

“Well, we tried to cart you away, but you stole a gun, took a hostage, and fled, didn’t you? Not exactly the actions of an innocent man, wouldn’t you say?”

“I was in the middle of something important. I didn’t have time to be arrested.”

“Well, beg pardon for not considering your timetable.”

“All right then,” I interrupted, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I think we’re all clear on our way forward here. Meeting over, I’d say. Come on, Mr Clever, let’s go find some evidence.”

“I’m not going to work a case I’ve already solved!”

“Sherlock, you heard Lestrade. Solving it doesn’t do any good unless they can actually arrest the suspect.”

“Oh, I’ve got to do everything!”

I suppressed a laugh, and said, “Well for a man of your talents, not proving it seems a bit like cheating, I think.”

“What?!”

“No one can really follow your thought processes, not even me-”

“John, if you’re making a point, make it a bit faster, please.”

“Okay then, new rule. It’s not solved ‘til you’ve proved it. Fast enough?” Sherlock stormed out of the office without another word. “Right then. This is us taking our leave, I suppose. I’ll text you with updates when we’ve got them.”

“Thanks, John. You really know how to keep him in line.”

I shrugged, “We’ll see.”

“Well if this new rule leads to an arrest, I owe you a thank you drink.”

Eight hours later, Sherlock, Lestrade, and I were sitting in a pub together. It was surreal. Sherlock was still ranting about the case, which helped allay the surreality a bit.

“If your buffoons had bothered to look in his pantry, they’d have seen the cases and cases of washing up liquid that he’d stolen because he couldn’t remember which bottle was the poisoned one meant for his wife. That’s what happens when idiots think they’ll get clever. They lose track of details...”

“Thanks again, John,” Lestrade said quietly as the barman set our round down in front of us.

“It’s what we do, Greg.”

“No, I mean thanks for making it possible to actually work with this one,” he jabbed his thumb at Sherlock.

“Ha, well, I’ve got to work with him, too.”

Sherlock stopped muttering about the case to say loudly, “What are you two whispering about?”

Lestrade half-turned on his stool so he didn’t have his back to Sherlock. “I was just about to toast your John, here, so you’ll want to get in on this.” He pushed a beer toward Sherlock and lifted a glass himself. “To John Watson, a detective who understands the importance of evidence.” Sherlock pouted, but raised his glass.

I grinned, “Thanks, gents. You’re too kind.”

“So how are things with you?” Lestrade said, turning back to me. “We’re about due for a catch-up, aren’t we? Sherlock being decent enough to you?”

Sherlock huffed loudly from behind Lestrade. “Don’t patronise, Lestrade. And if you’re going to spend the rest of the evening digging for information about our relationship, do let me know now so I can expire of boredom immediately instead of spending hours suffering.”

I smiled, “Decency’s not our strong suit, is it, love?”

“God, think if it were. How incredibly dull.”


	54. Chapter 54

“Have you heard much from Harry?”  
“Not really. Haven’t seen her since my birthday. She comments on the blog sometimes, but that’s really the only time she ever contacts me.”  
“Does that bother you?”  
“A bit. I wish I could... I suppose every relationship finds its level. We’re not arguing this way. I just hate what she thinks of us. That I’m your puppet. Makes it hard to talk to her. I know she’s not taking me seriously. She thinks my whole life is just...a puppet show, I suppose.”  
“Can I help?”  
“Don’t think so, love. Thanks for asking, though. Means a lot.”  
“Anything, John.”

…

“I suppose I can consider you completely domesticated now.”  
“Domesticated? No I’m not! Why am I? Because of the apron?”  
“Yes, of course because of the apron.”  
“Don’t be silly, John. It’s a lab apron. Health and safety are very important in a lab.”  
“But you’re making tea in it.”  
“So? Tea break.”  
“So you’re the picture of domesticity. Is it what you dreamed it would be?”  
“Yes, actually. Being sneered at by a miniature doctor is what I’ve always wanted for my homelife.”  
“And I’ve always wanted to be sneered at by a mad detective.”  
“Nearly there, John, but keep up the witty remarks and you may be in luck soon.”

...

John really made a gorgeous criminal (if you think of pranks as crimes). The hints he left for me on his blog, the way third incident (the apéritif, he called it!) foreshadowed the fourth. The way he executed it all right in front of me. The slightly mad gloating. It was lovely. I couldn’t have been more pleased. It was no trouble at all to concede to him (bit exciting, in fact), though I made a bit of a fuss for his satisfaction. I almost wish he’d turn to a life of crime, just so I could have the pleasure of pursuing him. Although then I’d miss the pleasure of solving cases with him. John is too staunchly moral (my heart) for this ever to be a real dilemma, but I do enjoy pondering it. If I ever turn to a life of crime, I will have the world’s best accomplice. Or I’ll have a uniquely qualified detective to chase me.


	55. Chapter 55

“Sherlock, are you awake?”  
“Yes.”  
“Can’t sleep either?”  
“Could do if not for the storm.”  
“Yeah, it’s really coming down, isn’t it? And the wind’s a bit spooky.”  
“John, unless we’re about to be sucked into a tornado, assume I do not want to discuss the weather.”  
“Fine, fine, no weather. What shall we discuss, then?”  
“Hmm...”  
“See, this is why people discuss the weather. I’ve a question for you, though. Been meaning to ask for a while now, and this seems as good a time as any.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yes. Do you remember the morning you played violin on my arm?”  
“Of course.”  
“You told me you’d composed that piece two years ago?”  
“Yes, but it’ll be closer to three.”  
“When was that exactly?”  
“After the pool. When you were in New Zealand. Most of it anyway. Bits of it have changed.”  
“Did you know then?”  
“Sort of.”  
“Sort of?”  
“Well, it wasn’t like it is now. It was more like it began to occur as a possibility.”  
“What was that like?”  
“I was annoyed, but I thought I’d just hide it and it would go away. It usually does.”  
“Usually?”  
“Yes. I’ve, er, noticed people before.”  
“Er, generally men?”  
“Why do people always fixate on that? Does it matter?”  
“I was just wondering if you’re, er, like me. You know?”  
“Like you? Oh, no. Generally men.”  
“Men and Irene, then?”  
“Do I have to discuss that?”  
“Of course not.”  
“I won’t then. Sorry.”  
“No, I’m sorry to pry. Working on my Sherlock Holmes encyclopaedia, I suppose.”  
“I know. No harm done. I just. If you don’t mind.”  
“Of course. Sorry.”  
“What about you? When did you know?”  
“I’m not sure. It didn’t come on me suddenly. It was rather like waking up. You know when you wake really gently and you barely realise it and eventually you say to yourself ‘oh, hullo, I’m awake.’ Sorry for the poetry.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“Ha, very generous.”  
“So when did you notice you were awake?”  
“I was sure about it just before the hiatus. When Moriarty went to trial. I was going to tell you, actually. It’s just that, well, you were a bit preoccupied.Then about ten things went wrong all at once. You remember. I thought I’d wait until we’d sorted the whole mess and well. You know.”  
“John, why didn’t you tell me?”  
“I would have, but you were out of sight for a bit, weren’t you?”  
“No, I mean after I came back. You should have told me. I didn’t know when I made you-”  
“I know you didn’t, Sherlock.”  
“I wouldn’t have-”  
“If you could have done anything differently, you would have. I know. Remember, it was the means to an end. Sherlock? Take a deep breath, love.”  
“Right. Sorry.”  
“It’s all right. Sorry. Let’s talk about something cheerful.”  
“Bloody rain.”  
“Yeah, wind’s a bit spooky, too.”


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposting this because I noticed a typo right after I got it up here. That'll teach me to rush through proofreading.

"Stop thinking about it, Sherlock."  
"I wasn't."  
"Yes, you were."  
"How could you know that? You've just come in five seconds ago."  
"Well, you've got Smoke on your chest and Skip on your ankle. You only let them do that when you're really preoccupied."  
"Oh. Yes. So I have."  
"I've brought you a present. It's not a cup of coffee even though it looks like a cup of coffee, so don't try to drink it. Oh and you’ll want to put these gloves on before you open the cup."  
"Oh, thank you John, how thoughtful... Is this a finger?"  
"Does it look like a finger?"  
"Yes, left index finger from a male guitarist. Keen amateur, not a professional I think. Severed after death by emergency services to remove a caught ring so the body could be removed from wreckage. Car crash? Some sort of violent accident. About forty-five years old, I'd say judging by the texture and colour of the knuckle hair. Why've you brought me a finger?"  
"Just thought it might cheer you up, so I popped by the morgue on my way home. The coffee cup was Molly's idea. Cute, eh? Shall I put it in the fridge?"  
"I may have to start keeping the list again."  
"Mine's still going strong. Number 207: Sherlock can be cheered by severed fingers."

...

"Will you pass the sugar bowl, darling?"  
"I'm sorry, are you addressing me?"  
"Yes, Sherlock. I'm not addressing Skip. Though she is closer to the sugar bowl, come to that."  
"My name's not darling."  
"Yes, I know what your name is, Sherlock. It was what we call a pet name."  
"You've already given me a pet name. If you go adding new ones all the time, how am I to know when you're speaking to me?"  
"Oh Sherlock, it's too early in the morning for pedantry."  
"It's never too early to be correct, John."  
“All right, then, Sherlock- oh have you got a middle name?”  
“No.”  
“Sherlock Holmes, will you pass the sugar bowl?”  
“Yes, John Hamish Watson, I will. Isn’t it nice to be correct? Must be refreshing for you. Good change of pace.”

...

“God, those jeans are tight. I can almost see what religion you are.”  
“Part of the disguise, John. We’re supposed to be incognito. I’m just trying to blend in.”  
“Just trying to show off, more like it.”  
“Show off? Show off my ownership of this particular pair of jeans? Show off my ability to work a zip?”  
“Show off your very attractive backside. Don’t pretend you don’t know you’ve got one.”  
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”  
“You’ve been longing for me to mention it.”  
“Yes, John, I orchestrate these situations for the glorification of my own arse.”  
“Sounds about right.”


	57. Chapter 57

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody type so fast for so long.”  
“I really only have one typing speed, John, and I’ve lots to put down.”  
“What are you writing?”  
“Just catching up on some notes.”  
“Oh, for the washing up liquid case?”  
“No, something else.”  
“What, then?”  
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”  
“Oh come on, Sherlock. If you want to keep a secret, you know better than to wave it around in front of me like that. Tell me!”  
“I was hardly waving anything in front of you, John.”  
“Come on, Sherlock.”  
“Oh all right, then. Hmm, I’m not sure where to start. Do you remember asking me if I look at bits of you under a microscope?”  
“Now you mention it, I remember asking you not to tell me what bits of me you look at under a microscope.”  
“Ha, I won’t. I suppose that wasn’t such a good place to begin after all. Ah, well, I’ll just spit it out then. I keep notes on you. Er, fairly detailed notes. Remember the flow chart?”  
“Somehow I’m not surprised. May I see them?”  
“If you must, but I think you may find them rather off-putting.”  
“I suppose I’d better trust your judgment on that. Any poetry?”  
“John...”  
“All right, relax. Only joking. How is it that you’re behind?”  
“I’ve reinstated the list. I have to catch up, and I’m months behind.”  
“What’s the last thing you’ve added?”  
“New freckle on the corner of your mouth. Just here.”  
“You lunatic. That’s lovely, though it does make me feel quite scrutinised.”  
“Don’t worry, John. You’re doing fine.”  
“Well I have been working on my freckle portfolio.”  
“Now you’re just putting me further behind, John. That remark will have to go on the list. Go away, I have enough work to do.”

...

“Sherlock, I’m not wasting away of tuberculosis. I’ve just got a tiny bit of a cold. I can still lift a mug.”  
“Sorry. I’ve never looked after some one who was ill before.”  
“I’m barely ill, really. I just need a good night’s sleep, and I’ll be fine. Is that Lestrade texting you? Maybe you should answer; that was the fifth one tonight.”  
“He can do without me for an evening. I want to see you’re comfortable.”  
“Yes, fine, Sherlock. I really don’t need to be looked after. Not every one melts into a whingy little puddle just because they’re a bit sneezy.”  
“I suppose you intended that remark to be a reflection on me.”  
“Oh, d’y’think? You’re so perceptive.”  
“Sarcasm is damaging to the immune response, John.”

...

“So, Sherlock, have I done anything noteworthy lately?”  
“I should not have told you about that.”  
“It’s rather flattering, really. If mad. But those two things are usually coinciding with you, somehow.”  
“You keep notes on me.”  
“The blog? Not the same, I suspect.”  
“No, your little book. On your bedside table. You write about me in it, don’t you?”  
“You don’t know?”  
“I haven’t looked. Thought I’d respect your privacy.”  
“Sorry, what? Respect my what?”  
“Oh, John, you and your theatrics. What’s in the book?”  
“You’d call it poetry I suppose. Have a look, if you’re curious. I don’t mind.”  
“When did you start keeping it?”  
“It’s the latest in a series.The others are probably up in the empty bedroom, if you want to look. I started keeping it years ago. Shortly after we met, actually. After we'd known each other for a bit, I realised I was a bit starry-eyed, and I was going to have some thoughts about you I should probably keep to myself. Hence the little book. If you do look, it will make you laugh. Bits of it are quite, er, florid.”  
“Some of it must be less than complimentary.”  
“Not as much as you’d think. I’m quite comfortable complaining about you aloud.”  
“Don’t I know it?”

...

"John, do you trust me to make end of life decisions for you?"  
"Is this the murder-suicide? Can you wait to kill us until after Doctor Who comes back? I really want to see the next series."  
"I've no idea what that means."  
"Yeah, you do."  
"Anyway, I'm being serious, John. Considering how we spend our time, we really can't be careless about providing for those types of eventualities."  
"I suppose you're right."  
"Of course I'm right. I've been thinking it over a bit, and I think the simplest way to do it would be to get married. Or is it a civil partnership? Whatever the heterosexuals are letting us get away with these days."  
"Do you hear that, Sherlock? It's the sound of the world record for best proposal ever being shattered."  
"All I can hear is the breaking of the one for best acceptance ever. It's positively roaring in my ears."


	58. Chapter 58

"I hope I didn't startle you too severely, John. With my suggestion."  
"No, you don't. You live to startle me. Anyway, I'm not startled at all, love. I think it's a brilliant idea."  
"Ah, good. I was thinking we could do it next week. Could you make the arrangements?"  
"I think it takes a bit longer than that, actually. I'll look into it."  
"Longer? How could it take longer? Have we got to go on a quest? Slay a dragon and rescue a maiden? That wouldn't take me longer than a week, come to that."  
"You’ve got to register intent before you can actually do it. And I don't know what you're complaining about. I can already tell you're not going to bother yourself about any arranging."  
"Well, you're much better at all that bureaucratic rubbish."  
"Generous praise, indeed. Is that on your list?"  
“Yes, actually. Number 246: John fills in the forms.”  
“That’s the real reason you want to marry me, isn’t it?”  
“It is. Well spotted, John. The game is up, I suppose.”  
“Nah, it’s all right. I’m only doing this so I’ve got some one tall to reach the top shelf for me at the Tesco.”  
“I can understand that. All the best biscuits are up there.”

...

“Er, John?”  
“Yes?”  
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was rather hoping this could be more of a matter of paperwork than-”  
“Yes, I agree.”  
“Oh, thank god. We don’t have to have a party?”  
“No, love, I know you wouldn’t like that.”  
“You’re not going to make me wear a tie?”  
“No, of course not.”  
“No punchbowl?”  
“Well, that would leave us vulnerable to poisoners, wouldn’t it?”  
“Yes, John, it would. I’m glad you understand that.”  
“‘Course I do.”

...

“All right, love?”  
“Fine. You?”  
“Yeah, fine. Bit hungry. Could do with a bacon sandwich.”  
“Ah, well I believe I saw a cafe just up the road. Allow me to make you a wedding present of a bacon sandwich.”  
“Why thank you, Sherlock.”  
“Perhaps a cup of coffee as well?”  
“Yes, thank you. How you do spoil me now we’re married.”

…

“Didn’t think you’d tell me about your news?”  
“Why would I?”  
“Because I am your elder brother. I believe it’s customary to involve one’s family in these occasions.”  
“And what’s that got to do with me?”  
“Will we ever have a conversation that isn’t absolutely exhausting?”  
“Perhaps. Probably not.”  
“Well, anyway. Congratulations.”  
“Thank you. Do you really mean that?”  
“I’m not sure.”

…

“I suppose we’ve got to have a host of tedious conversations with all our various acquaintances now.”  
“Worse still, love, we may get wedding presents.”  
“Ugh.”  
“It won’t be so bad.”  
“Er, John, don’t shout, but I’ve done something.”  
“Don’t shout? What have you done, Sherlock?”  
“I’ve just sent a text.”  
“Oh, Sherlock, you didn’t!”  
“Sorry, John. Had to be done.”  
“Who did you tell?”  
“Every one.”  
“Lestrade and Molly?”  
“And Stamford.”  
“Not Mrs Hudson, though?”  
“No, of course not. Let’s go down and tell her now. May as well get it out of the way. Oh, perhaps she’ll bake us a cake.”


	59. Chapter 59

“Are you going to tell Harry?”  
“Maybe. Not now.”  
“She won’t be happy.”  
“No. I don’t care.”  
“It’s all right with me if you care a bit, John.”  
“Thanks love. I don’t.”

…

“What are you doing?”  
“I’m indexing your socks.”  
“Why?”  
“Had to. Call it a wedding present.”  
“You’ve already given me a bacon sandwich. And what do you mean ‘had to’?”  
“Couldn’t stand it any longer, John.”  
“How do I even use a sock index?”  
“It’s very simple, John. I’ve explained it to you at least a dozen times.”  
“Right, so you have. It’s all coming back now.”  
“You and your sarcasm. The ingratitude of you.”

...

"What would you do if something happened to John?"  
"Mycroft, if you're threaten-"  
"Oh, sit down and don't talk nonsense, Sherlock. I'm not going to harm your husband. Some one else might."  
"Yes, it's a possibility, isn't it? I'd moan for a bit then go on a murderous rampage, and they'd make a film about me."  
"Rampage like you did with the sniper? Did you have fun? I saw the body. Looked like you took your time about it."  
"What's your point, Mycroft?"  
"And that unfortunate young man from a few months back. Dear me, gun butt to the face. Twice. He's had three reconstructive surgeries, but they can't quite seem to put his nose right."  
"It was his gun I used, Mycroft. He could have killed us."  
"A man like you needs to remain aloof, Sherlock. Especially if you're going to play the white knight."  
"I don't play the white knight."  
"Well, only on very special occasions. You may orbit John Watson like a satellite, but the rest of the world does not. You would do well to remember that."  
"All done, then? Nice catching up, Mycroft. See you at Christmas."

...

“You told me I didn’t have to go to any parties.”  
“Actually I told you we didn’t have to throw any parties. And it’s not a party, it’s a drink with Molly. We’ve done that before. You enjoyed it even.”  
“Is she going to ask about the wedding?”  
“Probably. Oh, don’t look like that. It’ll be nice. Just gaze adoringly at me, and I’ll do all the talking.”  
“It was hardly a wedding even. Do your friends take you for a drink to celebrate the renewal of your driving licence?”  
“Difficult life you lead, Sherlock. People always wanting to congratulate you for one thing or another.”  
“I just don’t see why what we do matters to other people. It’s got nothing to do with them; it was just a bit of paperwork!”  
“I think they’re just curious to see such a lifelike robot close up.”  
“If I’m a robot, that makes you a bit of a pervert, doesn’t it?”  
“Always have been, haven’t I?”


	60. Chapter 60

“John, are you sure about me?”  
“From day one.”  
“What would make you unsure?”  
“Nothing. I think I’ve got some sort of brain disease.”  
“This is terrifying, John.”  
“What is?”  
“This!”  
“Yeah. So it is. Murder-suicide, though.”  
“True.”  
“Got something on your mind, love?”  
“Yes.”  
“Want to talk about it?”  
“Yes.”  
“Can’t?”  
“Yes.”

...

When did yoghurt get so fancy?

 

You’re at Tesco constantly, John. Are you only just now noticing the (admittedly astonishing) yoghurt array?  
-SH

 

I suppose I just sort of wandered by before. I did not observe.

 

Texting while shopping. That’s very me of you.  
-SH

 

Yes, but it is because I've got a heart full of love. Not very you of me.

 

I can’t believe you’re forcing me to contradict you and put those words in my own mouth.   
-SH

 

I won’t tell.

 

Do we need anything besides cornflakes?

 

Everything, actually. We’ve got nothing in.  
-SH

 

I suppose this’ll be a long one, then. Wish you were here.

 

Shall I join you?  
-SH

 

Do my eyes deceive me? Is the magnificently reposed Sherlock Holmes actually offering to leave the flat and do the shopping?

 

I’ll meet you by the yoghurt in 10 minutes.  
-SH

...

“You’re right, John. This is entirely too much yoghurt. I’d forgotten.”  
“It’s not the quantity I mind so much as the variety. Look at this. Chocolate yoghurt. An abomination, don’t you think?”  
“Abominable.”  
“So, what does bring you here, love? Still got something on your mind?”  
“Just felt like shamming at being an ordinary person.”  
“Ah, so you’ve come here to mock yoghurt with me. Excellent choice. That’ll have you feeling ordinary in no time.”  
“Perhaps after this we could get a pizza and see a film.”  
“Now you’re just being perverse.”  
“And then maybe we could go to the pub for a pint.”  
“Right, now don’t speak to me that way in public. In the privacy of the bedroom, perhaps, but not here in the Tesco, Sherlock. There are decent people around.”


	61. Chapter 61

“John, I thought you’d like to know you have a new freckle.”  
“Yeah, I do know. Been keeping careful account. Which one in particular has caught your eye?”  
“Back of your left hand. Next to your thumb.”  
“Oh yes, that is a good one. Any other favorites?”  
“You’ve got a cluster on your right shoulder I’m quite fond of. Sometimes when you’re sleeping I draw a spider web in them.”

...

We haven’t had a good case on in a few weeks. It’s not quite as hard as it usually is. John has started us going for long walks in the evening, which helps a lot. After dinner, he does the washing up (as long as there aren’t any experiments in the sink). Then he makes two cups of tea. He puts mine at my place at the table, as a sort of invitation. Whether or not I join him, he sits at his place with the day’s paper and a pad, reading things aloud to me from time to time, and jotting down notes.

Between 8 and 8:15 in the evening (he tries to be casual about it, but I can see him get more eager as the time approaches), he looks at his watch, stands, and says, “Fancy a walk?” as if it’s only just occurred to him.  
I look at mine and say, “All right then.” We put our things on, and if it’s chilly, I wrap his scarf around his neck. I put it on for him because it’s always hung up under my coat with mine, as it is the first thing he removes when we get back to the flat (his scarf, my scarf, my coat, his coat). Sometimes I say, “Maroon is your colour, John.”  
And he replies, “Don’t I know it.”

We walk abreast, quite near each other but not touching. John points out things that have changed or are changing. Sometimes he even sees things I’ve missed. I tell him the backstories of the people we see walking by. Occasionally, he accuses me of making things up (‘no, Sherlock, I just don’t believe you can recognise a philandering juggler at fifty paces just by looking at him’). I’ve begun to think of it as a patrol of sorts. John and I looking after our city. It all sounds so predictable and ordinary and hateful. But at the centre of it is my John. My doctor who always puts me right and is not hateful and not predictable (even when he is) and never ever ordinary.


	62. Chapter 62

I am about to die. It’s almost all right because I’m looking into the face of John Watson. I’ve had this thought before several times, and been wrong each time. This time I’m right, I believe. He’s covered in my blood. His hands are slick and red and there are great drops of it running down his arms. That’s never happened before. Novel. Significant, I think. I wish he’d stop bothering about binding up my shoulder and just hold my hand.

“Sorry I couldn’t kill you, John,” I try to tell him. I’m not sure what I actually say.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” he says, tearing his shirt into more strips. “You’re going to be all right.” He seems to believe it, which makes me sad. I think he says something else. Perhaps lots of somethings else. Can't tell. He sounds all under water. I wish I could enjoy having his hands bind up my shoulder. I always imagined it would be thrilling to be treated by John. Really treated, not for a black eye or a cold, but properly treated, the way he treated his fellows when he was an army doctor.

I can hear a wailing nearby, an ambulance come to take me to visit Molly, I suppose (pray she’s not working tonight)(can’t remember). I can hear lots of approaching footsteps, and I stop myself from deducing the personal details of each paramedic by the sound of their tread. John has finally taken my hand. I look into his lovely face for a last long moment and shut my eyes.


	63. Chapter 63

He’s Alive

Yes, he was stabbed. He’s expected to recover. Please don’t phone or text. Can’t answer at the moment. Will post updates when he wakes up from sedation.

 

Comments disabled


	64. Chapter 64

Ugh, Heaven. Though at least John will be along in forty or fifty years to help me liven things up. I'd not see him in the other place. No, people don't really go to Heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned. Mummy, what nonsense you filled my head with. Heaven indeed. What, then? Where am I?

I open my eyes and am dazzled by fluorescent lights. John is nearby, I know without seeing him or hearing him. I can smell him (perhaps I'll have the chance to work out that evergreen element! Could I distill his smell? That would help. I shouldn't have left it so long). I blink several times, my eyes watering, and John comes into focus. He’s sitting in a little plastic chair to my right and there’s a flimsy sort of curtain hanging behind him. Hospital, then. Something about those curtains is very distinctive.

"Sherlock? How do you feel, love?"

"Am I alive, John?" Must be sure. Perhaps the afterlife is full of bad lighting and worse curtains.

He laughs (rather hysterical, but lovely), "Yeah, looks like it. I told you you'd be all right."

"John, I've been stabbed." (my shoulder fucking kills. Trying not to think about it.)

"Yeah, love, so you have. We're really a matched set, now. Well near enough anyway." He tugs down the neck of his jumper and his vest to show me the pink starburst on his shoulder. He ruined his shirt making bandages. Even my brilliant tailor couldn't do anything with it. I hope they saved the shirt; I'd like to keep it. That's the sort of thing I'm sentimental about. Bloody bits of shirt.

"Ah, so we are." When I'm feeling a bit better, I'll be absolutely delighted by this. 

"I'm afraid yours won't be as pretty as mine, though. Just a line, not even all zig-zaggy. Fairly superficial wound, actually. Idiot couldn’t even stab properly. Missed an artery by this much, you lucky bugger." John's fingers are whispering across my right hand. I catch them and squeeze them as hard as I can. “You thought you were dying, didn’t you? Kept saying ‘Murder suicide. Sorry’ over and over.”

"Theatrical as ever." Mycroft is in the room. He's standing by the window, leaning against his stupid umbrella and trying to look bored. I hadn't noticed him. My wound is affecting my powers of observation, it seems. A temporary failing, I hope. John stands.

He pats my hand gently before he speaks, "Mycroft," he says, "You'll be polite to your brother for once in your life, or I will have you ejected and banned. I will not speak to you about this again."

Mycroft looks quite startled. "Apologies," he mutters and turns to look out the window. I wish I could have recorded that moment. I shall brick it into my mind palace as soon as I have the energy.

John seats himself again and takes my hand. "He's actually quite upset," he says softly. "I don't know why he's acting this way."

"He always does." I want to say more, but I'm so tired. I shut my eyes.

"Yes, love, just rest." John begins to try to disengage the hand that's holding mine.

"Don't leave me."

"I've got to get the doctor, love. Back in a tic. You won't even miss me."

"No, John."

"All right, love. I won't leave. Mycroft? Could you?"

"Of course." I hear Mycroft leave, tapping his bloody idiotic umbrella against the lino. I have a few moments to luxuriate in the feel of John’s breath against my face and the pressure of his hand holding mine before the doctor returns (without Mycroft, who has hopefully fucked off home without bothering to take leave). I have a quick look at him from under my eyelashes (left-handed, late forties, smoker, father of four, educated abroad, god how dull. Shut my eyes again. Not worth deducing).

“Glad to see you awake, Mr Holmes,” he says. “I’m Dr Parnicky, and I’ll be handling your care. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve just been stabbed.”

“How’s the pain?”

“Stabbing.”

“Likely you’ll be able to go home tomorrow evening, as long as no infection develops. There was relatively little damage done. You’re a very lucky man.”

“Tomorrow evening? Are you sure?” John sounds more anxious than he did when he was talking to me. I want to say something cross and impatient. I’m already so bored of this hospital room. I keep quiet, though. John looks exhausted. John and Dr Parnicky discuss the timeline for the removal of the stitches and recovery of function in the arm. I drift in and out of this conversation. It’s boring (obviously) and I’m sleepy (which I resent. Must talk to John about the case at the next opportunity). I can hear John taking notes. That soft, dry scratch of pen on paper that means John is looking after me, and I’ve a moment to relax. My best man is on the case.


	65. Chapter 65

I didn’t think Sherlock would be in hospital long enough to receive any guests (Mrs Hudson was home frantically baking, despite my protests), but around noon on his second day, Molly turned up with a bunch of grapes. Sherlock tried one and called them, “tolerable but likely overpriced going by the carrier bag,” then added, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, pulling her chair closer to his bed and helping herself to a handful of grapes.

“Ulterior motive,” Sherlock said, wagging a finger at her. I laughed, and they both looked at me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Don’t mind me. Go back to your banter.”

Sherlock crooked an eyebrow at me. “Thank you, John.”

“You were on the news again last night,” Molly said. “Reminded me of...that other time.” She ate another grape. We were all silent for a moment.

“Thank you, Molly,” said Sherlock quietly. He reached out and pressed her hand. She stood up and leaned over to hug him, but couldn’t manage his sling. She kissed him quickly on the cheek instead. He beamed, and I laughed again.

“Sorry,” she muttered, glancing at me and dropping back into her chair.

“Not at all,” I said, grinning. “It wasn’t as nice as you thought it would be, was it? He needs a shave.”

…

“I never had the chance to congratulate you on your survival.”  
“It’s a talent of mine.”  
“Fortunate that John was with you.”  
“Very.”  
“I’m glad you have him. He lessens my workload considerably.”  
“Well, well, isn’t this a sudden reversal?”  
“I was wrong.”  
“Sorry, what? I must have misheard you. Are you still speaking English?”  
“Childish.”  
“You’ll have to start watching what you say, Mycroft. If you have to eat your words every time I have a near-death experience, you’ll never lose any weight.”  
“Very amusing. Thank John for me, will you?”  
“Thank him yourself.”


	66. Chapter 66

“Is there anything I can do?”  
“Like what, Harry?”  
“Do you need anything? Do you want to talk?”  
“No and no.”  
“I just want to help, John.”  
“I don’t know what to say, Harry. You hate him.”  
“I don’t want him to-I just want you to be happy, Jack.”  
“I am happy, Harriet. When people aren’t punching holes in my husband, anyway.”  
“In your what?”  
“Oh god. Any chance you could just congratulate me?”  
“When did this happen?”  
“About a month ago.”  
“Didn’t think you’d mention it?”  
“Really busy right now, Harry. Gotta go.”  
...

“Cat out of the bag, John?”  
“Yep.”  
“And how was that?”  
“Could have been worse, I suppose.”  
“Oh?”  
“She could have stabbed me.”  
“Yes, that would have been worse.”

...

“John, you’re a Sherlock Holmes expert. Tell me something about myself.”  
“Er, something in particular?”  
“How could I have just given up like that? It doesn’t make any sense.”  
“When you were attacked? Are you actually surprised that stabbing you had some effect on you?”  
“I don’t just give up!”  
“No, you don’t, do you? You raise bloody-mindedness to an art form. You’re like Rasputin; you refuse to stay down.”  
“Yes, thank you, John.”  
“Anyway you didn’t give up, you just stepped aside for teamwork. It is all right to let your trauma surgeon husband handle the stab wounds.”  
“Hmm.”  
“Hadn’t thought of it that way?”  
“No, not quite.”  
“Yeah, you didn’t give up. You deferred to my expertise. I sorted you out, didn’t I? Well, got it started anyway.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“That’s what I’m for, love.”  
“Well, among other things.”

...

“Don’t squirm, John. You make a very poor cushion.”  
“I’m not a cushion, I’m a person.”  
“Well you’ve placed yourself where my cushion was, so I assumed you were offering yourself as a substitute.”  
“You never make room for me on the sofa.”  
“Don’t exaggerate, John. And stop squirming.”  
“You’re so pointy. Stop jabbing me.”  
“I can’t help being pointy, John. You won’t be jabbed, if you hold still.”  
“I can’t hold still when I’m being used for a pincushion.”  
“Then it appears we are at an impasse.”

...

“Good morning, John.”  
“Er, good morning, Mycroft.”  
“How is everything? How’s Sherlock?”  
“We’re fine. Thanks for asking, I suppose. He’s good. Recovery’s going well. He had the stitches out yesterday, and he's on course to finish with the sling next week.”  
“Good. That’s good. If you ever find yourself overwhelmed, I’d be happy to arrange for a bit of household help.”  
“Ah, there it is. The kind of household help that plants recording devices in your flat?”  
“Not that kind, no. I know Sherlock can be rather a handful.”  
“Do you?”  
“Perhaps you find him easier to manage than I did.”  
“I don’t manage him, Mycroft. Did you need something?”  
“I wanted to see if I could be of use.”  
“Ah.”  
“Can I?”  
“Nope.”  
“Well. You know how to reach me, if you change your mind.”  
“I won’t.”  
“Thank you for looking after him.”  
“I don’t do it to please you.”  
“No, of course not.”  
“I’m not sure this has occurred to you, but he’s lovely when you’re actually nice to him.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“Something to consider.”  
“Indeed.”


	67. Chapter 67

This Story’s Full of Holes

Sorry I haven’t updated, and I promised I would. Been really busy (or else exhausted) lately. You might have heard in the news that Sherlock was stabbed. He’s (relatively) fine. His recovery is going really well. He’s actually sort of looking after himself, with only a little prodding from me. He’s had his stitches out already, and he’s almost done with his sling. Which is too bad because having his elbow crooked under his coat made all his swooping about even more impressive. I tried to take a photo, but all the ones I got are either very blurry or prominently featuring a rude hand gesture, so I won't post any here.

Sherlock was really annoyed when we found out the police had already caught the man who attacked him. He consoled himself by saying, “well, if they got him, he couldn’t have been all that much fun to chase.” So you see his brush with death has made him gentler and humbler. Not too much worse than when he broke his wrist, really. He’s quite sturdy, though he doesn’t look it. Good thing, too, as he’s the only consulting detective in the world.

Comments (16)

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
John, I strenuously object to being associated with that pun.

 

John Watson:  
Leave my prose alone. I’m the only one mad enough to try and recount your doings.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
That doesn’t mean you can’t be held to a standard of decency.

 

John Watson:  
I thought decency wasn’t our strong suit?

 

Molly Hooper:  
Do you two always just sit in your flat typing to each other?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
We’re interfacing.

 

Molly Hooper:  
What's that mean?

 

John Watson:  
It’s a robot thing. He’s just being silly.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
He can speak for himself.

 

Jacob Sowersby:  
That’s our Sherlock Holmes! Invincible!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Near enough.

 

Harry Watson:  
Why were you stabbed?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Suspect. Just some spooked idiot.

 

Harry Watson:  
Something you said, then?

 

John Watson:  
Very thin ice, Harry.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Oh relax, John. It’s fine. Your sister made a joke, and it was mildly amusing. Unlike the title of your blog entry.


	68. Chapter 68

“Looks like you solved the ventriloquist case?”  
“Yes, this afternoon. Thought I’d texted you. Strange client. He was more upset that I pulled his little doll to bits than that his brother had been poisoning him for six months. Apparently he’d made rather a companion of it. Well, you go into ventriloquy and you have to expect attempts on your life.”  
“Good lord, Sherlock.”  
“Not good?”  
“No, you’re doing that heartless bastard thing again.”  
“All’s well that ends well, John.”  
“Ends with your brother going to prison for trying to murder you.”  
“Actually, I was just thinking he could have the doll remade. I recommended a friend of mine.”  
“You’ve got a friend who repairs dummies?”  
“Well, an acquaintance. Still she does very good work, and she owes me a favor.”  
“And once the dummy’s been put right, everything will be fine?”  
“Perhaps not everything. But you can tolerate a lot when you’re in good company.”  
“Hang on, I sense a second level to this conversation. Am I your dummy?”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. If you were, you’d be much more articulate.”

...

“Sherlock, you know what’s strange?”  
“Yes.”  
“Ha, well anyway. We’ve known each other less than five years. Can you believe it? What were we doing with ourselves all that time before we knew each other?”  
“Preparing.”  
“Oh, Sherlock that’s-”  
“John, stop. I’d be lost without you, but if you say the word ‘poetry,’ I will have to gruesomely kill you.”  
“Gruesomely eh?”  
“Very.”  
“Well, if you’d said ‘cleanly and painlessly kill you,’ I’d have told you to piss off, you brooding poet, you. But gruesomely? I’m intimidated. You’ve shut me up.”  
“You’re in for it now, John.”  
“Looking forward to it.”

…

“Don’t open that.”  
“What?”  
“The fridge. Don’t look.”  
“Why not? What’s in there?”  
“Rather not say. Just. Don’t open it.”  
“Right. I’ll just put it out of my mind. Dinner?”  
“In a minute. Go ahead down and get a cab. I’ll be along. I just have to get rid of it.”  
“What is it?”  
“Just trust me, John.”  
“How are you going to get rid of it?”  
“Just go and get a cab. I’ll be right down.”  
“I suppose I should be grateful that you warn me now. Is it a head?”  
“No, but don’t guess. I’ll be right down. Where are the bin bags?”  
“Under the sink. Is it worse than a head?”  
“That’s a matter of perspective.”  
“Right. I’m not going to ask any more questions.”  
“Wise of you.”


	69. Chapter 69

“Can’t you look after him a bit better? You’re running him ragged.”  
“John?”  
“Of course John! Who else would I be talking about?”  
“Well, this is our first conversation outside his presence. I didn’t like to assume, as I’ve got almost no frame of reference.”  
“God, you’re exhausting! Just look after him, all right? Take him on holiday or something. You’re his husband; it’s your job.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“Thanks for meeting me. Didn't think you would.”  
“Well, it was a novelty. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be interesting if you want a repeat.”  
“Not unless you fuck up again. Not everyone is queuing up to genuflect at your altar, you know.”  
“Fuck up again? What have I fucked up?”  
“Oh, getting stabbed is not a fuck up? It’s what you meant to do, is it?”  
“That was hardly my fault. I didn’t set out to get stabbed, did I?”  
“Does it matter?”  
“No, I suppose not. How do you propose I prevent it in the future?”  
“Same way everybody else does. Don’t go chasing after people who want to stab you. Christ, you’re an idiot. I’m going. Coffee’s on you. Look after my brother. Better than you have done.”  
“I will.”  
“Do. Or we’re gonna have another little chat, and I won’t be so nice next time.”

...

“You’re not the only one who cares about freckles, you know.”  
“No? Been working on your portfolio?”  
“Looking after yours, actually.”  
“Mine?”  
“You’ve got one on your throat, did you know? Right next to your adam’s apple. That’s the best one.”  
“Oh?”  
“There are others. This one here above your left eyebrow. And this one on your lip.”  
“Any more?”  
“Yes, lots. You should engage someone to manage them for you.”  
“Are you available?”  
“Mmm, maybe. Ring my secretary; I haven’t got my diary on me.”  
“I don’t know if I could afford your fee.”  
“Oh fair point, probably not. My freckle management services are a bit dear.”  
“Worth it, I imagine?”  
“Well worth it if you can afford it, and I’ve got the time to take you on.”  
“I do hope you can squeeze me in.”  
“I’m sure I can. Got a bit of a soft spot for you.”

...

“Are you happy, John?”  
“Delirious, love.”  
“I’m being serious, John.”  
“So’m I. Think what it was like for us this time last year. Miserable, alone. Didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again. Wouldn’t even have thought to wish for what we’ve got now. It’s perfect. It’s a miracle. I couldn’t be happier. What about you?”  
“Same. I feel the same.”  
“Yeah, I know. Quite right, too.”  
“You’ve seemed a bit worn out. Am I looking after you? Would you like to go away for a bit?”  
“Well, you’re the one who’s needed looking after lately.”  
“We’ve got to both look after each other.”  
“So we have. I’ll be okay. Thanks for asking.”  
“Rule one, John.”  
“Well, I suppose I’m a bit tired. Could do with a break. It’s not really a break when you’re bored, though.”  
“I won’t be bored.”  
“Can you just switch it off?”  
“I can cope. And I have you. You’re always good fun.”  
“Oh am I?”  
“Of course you are, or I’d have bricked you into a wine cellar long ago.”  
“All right then, Montresor. Let’s go on holiday.”


	70. Chapter 70

“You are mad. Much more than I thought.”  
“We don’t have to. Thought it might be fun.”  
“I thought you promised not to jump off any more buildings.”  
“That’s BASE jumping. We’d be jumping out of a plane. And I said I wouldn’t do it unless I took you with me.”  
“Oh, fair point. That’s all right then.”  
“Don’t be boring, John. It’s better than sitting on a beach, isn’t it?”  
“I suppose I should have known your idea of a holiday would be absolutely mad and really dangerous.”  
“We’d have a qualified instructor with us, John. They take safety very seriously. Helmets, harnesses, back up parachutes. But if you don’t like it, we could swim with sharks or go caving or something. Whatever you like.”  
“When did you get so intrepid and sporting?”  
“I believe I’ve said before John, I do have experiences outside the ones you’ve personally witnessed. I didn’t burst into being on the day we met.”  
“What about your shoulder?”  
“My shoulder’s fine. It’ll be better than fine by the time we go.”  
“Oh, go on then. Throw me out of a plane.”  
“Well, it’s not going to happen quite like that. But I will. Gladly.”

...

Holiday!

All you hellions brace yourselves for a cold snap because Sherlock and I are going on holiday! I know, I can’t believe it either. We’ll be out of reach for a bit (leaving the mobiles at home! Another miracle!). All you criminals in London just sit tight until we come back. It wouldn’t do to disappoint Sherlock by being really clever and interesting while he’s away. We’re leaving week after next, so get your bon voyage in before then, every one.

 

Comments (12)

Sherlock Holmes:  
Four exclamation marks in a single paragraph is a really appalling misuse of punctuation, John.

 

John Watson:  
Oh calm down about my punctuation! I’m excited! I’m going on holiday with a madman! Wish me luck every one!

 

Harry Watson:  
Good luck, John! Where are you going?!

 

John Watson:  
New Zealand! It was really incredible when I went before, and I can’t wait to go back! Sherlock’s never been!

 

Harry Watson:  
I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time! My love to Peter and Juliet!

 

John Watson:  
We may look in on them if we can work out the schedules, but actually we’ve got some other plans!

 

Molly Hooper:  
Good for you two! You could both do with a bit of a rest! You work too hard! I hear New Zealand is really beautiful! Will you bring me back a souvenir?!

 

John Watson:  
Thanks Molly! Of course we’ll bring you something!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’m going to have to kill you all.

 

John Watson:  
There’s a sentence that could have used an exclamation mark!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You first, John!

 

John Watson:  
Help yourself, Montresor! I’m ready for you!


	71. Chapter 71

Back Again

Sherlock says a person with holiday photos is a social pariah, but I couldn’t resist posting this one of him. I’ve never seen him so exhilarated outside the company of a serial killer. I wasn’t quite sure about the skydiving at first, but Sherlock was so confident about it that it seemed almost a reasonable thing to do. He’s the Pied Piper of thrill chasing. I’m glad he convinced me. That’s all I can really say about that. If I were a different sort of person, I might say it was a spiritual experience. The trip was completely brilliant. I don’t even know where to start, and I’m rather afraid that once started, I’d just go on about it until forcibly silenced. I’m already dying to go back; we might have to make it an annual trip. There was so much I still wanted to do when it was time to go. It is good to be home, though.

 

Comments(25)

Sherlock Holmes:  
It isn’t their company I find exhilarating; it’s their brains. Will you ever write a post where you actually describe something properly? If I hadn’t been there, I’d find these breathless allusions rather irritating.

 

John Watson:  
Claiming to find the brains of serial killers exhilarating rather makes you sound like one yourself, Montresor.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
We’ve had that conversation, Fortunato.

 

John Watson:  
Calling me Fortunato really makes you sound like a serial killer, love.

 

Molly Hooper:  
Nobody understands your references.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
If only there were some sort of widely available tool that you could use to educate yourself with only a tiny bit of effort. Like say typing ‘Montresor’ into a search engine.

 

Molly Hooper:  
It’s just a bit intimidating to jump into a conversation between you two when you’re already on about mysteriously exhilarating holidays and horrifying pet names.

 

Harry Watson:  
You took him skydiving? Bit insensitive, don’t you think?

 

John Watson:  
No need, Harry. We had a lovely time. Want to get a coffee? You can be the first victim of my holiday photos.

 

Harry Watson:  
Yeah, I do!

 

Mike Stamford:  
I’d like to see those photos myself, John. Been thinking of taking my family to New Zealand. Do anything besides throw yourself out of planes?

 

John Watson:  
I’d love to show them to you, Mike. I’ll call round Bart’s. Maybe next Tuesday? We could have lunch.

 

Mike Stamford:  
Sounds great! I’ll see you then.

 

John Watson:  
See Sherlock? People do want to see the photos.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
A social fiction common among friends, I believe.

 

G Lestrade:  
Back are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Could have used your help last week.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I assume you could still use my help.

 

G Lestrade:  
Well, yeah.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Text me the details. If the case interests me, I’ll be over after I’ve unpacked.

 

John Watson:  
You mean after I’ve unpacked. You never unpack.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Things find their way out of my case in time.

 

G Lestrade:  
Bickering aside, find your way over a little sooner than ‘in time,’ if you don’t mind.

 

John Watson:  
Got your text. Leaving now.

 

Molly Hooper:  
Hope you remembered my souvenir.

 

Molly Hooper:  
Oh, you’ve gone.


	72. Chapter 72

"What have you done to me, you witch?"  
"Sorry?"  
"For the last ten minutes, I've been thinking of how your hair is blonde, brown, and sort of ginger all at once and your eyes are blue, green, and brown in turns. Ten minutes I've been thinking of your hair and your eyes, John. You've set some spell on me. Admit it!"  
"My eyes are not ever brown."  
"They are. Witch eyes."  
"Well, I didn't intentionally enspell you."  
"You've been taking advantage, though."  
"I seem to remember you encouraging me to take advantage."  
"You'll have to be burnt at the stake. Witch."  
"That’s not very historically accurate."  
"Fine then. Drowned or pressed or hanged. Whichever you prefer as I'm feeling generous."  
"Pressed, please."  
"Excellent choice."  
...

“What are you smirking at?”  
“It’s just nice to see you in a strop.”  
“What?”  
“For weeks you’ve been all beatific smiles and loving caresses. Not that I don’t enjoy all that, but it was starting to feel a bit unnatural. Nice to see you with a proper snarl on.”  
“Do shut up, John.”  
“Call me an idiot.”  
“No.”  
“You want to, though. I can see it in your eyes. Go on.”  
“I won’t give you the satisfaction.”  
“Too late. Satisfaction received.”  
...

“Anything new on your list?”  
“You may not like it.”  
“Oh, but I very much want to hear it.”  
“All right then. Number 312: John will jump out of an aeroplane, if I ask him to.”  
“You jumped, too.”  
“It’s just good to know where I stand. Oh and number 313: John is not averse to public displays of affection.”  
“Are you talking about after the jump? I think public displays of affection is so mild a way to put that as to be misleading.”  
“I didn’t know that about you.”  
“Neither did I, actually. I think it was to do with the skydiving, not a general inclination to exhibitionism.”  
“Dangerous to presume without more data.”  
“Oh, indeed.”  
…

“Back again, witch? I seem to remember pressing you to death last week.”  
“Yes, it was quite a good pressing, but I’ve reincarnated.”  
“Reincarnated? Don’t talk rubbish, John.”  
“You’ve been very whimsical lately.”  
“It’s your doing.”  
“More witchcraft?”  
“You just make me feel relaxed.”  
“Relaxed, eh? That doesn’t make you angry?”  
“Well, it would do, but I’m too relaxed.”


	73. Chapter 73

“Did you bring me a souvenir from New Zealand?”  
“Yes, we did. Ask John. John’s got it.”  
“What is it?”  
“It’s a bit of a volcano.”  
“A volcano? Why a volcano?”  
“Just a bit. Not a whole one. We thought you probably hadn’t already got one.”  
“No, I haven’t got any volcanoes, actually. Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
“So what did you do in New Zealand besides jump out of planes?”  
“We walked a lot.”  
“Is that all?”  
“No.”  
“Go on then, Sherlock. Have a chat with me.”  
“We went riding.”  
“What on horseback?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“I didn’t know you rode.”  
“I used to ride in school.”  
“Did you wear riding breeches?”  
“Jeans.”  
“Almost as good.”  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“Nothing. What else did you do?”  
“Oh you know. Little excursions. Laughed at other tourists. Walked about, ate too much. Got pissed and annoyed the locals. Hand me that pipettor. Please.”  
“Here you are. That’s so normal.”  
“What were you expecting?”  
“I don’t know. High drama. Did you deduce anything?”  
“Of course. Loads.”  
“Did you solve any mysteries?”  
“No, we were on holiday. I ignored the mysteries.”  
“There were actually mysteries?”  
“Of course.”  
“Do you just see mysteries everywhere you go?”  
“Of course.”  
“That sounds overwhelming.”  
“Sometimes. Let’s talk about something else. You’re making me want a cigarette.”


	74. Chapter 74

“Hullo love-oh my god. Why is it freezing in here?”  
“Had to open all the windows.”  
“Why? What happened?”  
“Fumes.”  
“What sort of fumes?”  
“There was a small explosion. Smallish.”  
“Oh my god!”  
“Yes. Hence the open windows. I took the cats down to Mrs Hudson’s.”  
“Bet she was thrilled.”  
“Ha, indeed. We should go down there ourselves, actually. I should have gone to the lab. Didn’t want to get dressed. Stupid of me.”  
“Are we being poisoned?”  
“I don’t think so. Not poisoned exactly.”  
“Let’s get out of here!”  
“Yes, I agree. You’re the one standing around asking stupid questions.”

...

"That was brilliant! You were brilliant! Spectacular!"  
"You were on sparkling form yourself, John. It'd been a long while since you threatened to shoot someone for me."  
"Always a pleasure to be of service."  
"Speaking of which, wasn't there an inconclusive experiment that we needed to gather some data on?"  
"Right you are. I think I saw a coat cupboard downstairs."  
"Ah, yes, I saw the same one. Looked to be full of data."  
"It did, didn't it? Shall we?"  
"By all means."

...

"This is a nice photo. Where was it taken?"  
"That's from the ceremony."  
"There are photos of your wedding? May I see them?"  
"Just that one. And one I took on my phone of John eating a bacon sandwich."  
"What? In the ceremony?"  
"No, after."  
"But why?"  
"It was a wedding present."  
"From who?"  
"Whom. From me, of course. No one else was there."  
"You gave your husband a bacon sandwich as a wedding present?"  
"He asked for one. Really, Molly, you find the most tedious things interesting."

...

"John, so help me if you slurp your coffee again, I will punch that ridiculous beard right off your face!"  
"I haven't got a beard."  
"Yes, you do! Come to that, I may have to punch it off anyway. It's been making all kinds of crackling sounds on your pillow. Intolerable."  
"Fine, fine, I'll go shave. Don't drink my coffee."  
"As if I would. It's got milk in it."  
"Yes, milk. Not poison."  
"Same thing."

...

"Guess who I ran into today."  
"Do you really want me to deduce it--you know I don't guess, John-- or are you going to tell me?"  
"I'll tell you, if you like, but have a guess first."  
"Ex girlfriend?"  
"Yes, actually. Sarah Sawyer."  
"Which one was she?"  
"The doctor who got kidnapped."  
"Oh right. And how is she?"  
"Fine."  
"And? Why are you bringing her up?"  
"She asked after you."  
"Did she?"  
"I told her that we're married now, and she fell about laughing. Yes, just like that...all right...all right, Sherlock."  
"She wasn't surprised?"  
"Not in the slightest."  
"Well, she's cleverer than she looks, isn't she?"  
"No need for that."  
"I suppose it's a long scale."  
“Quite a long scale.”

...

“How would you like to die tonight, witch?”  
“I’ll have another pressing, please.”  
“It doesn’t seem to have done the trick last time.”  
“Then you’ll have to press harder, won’t you?”  
“Very well, then. Anything for you, I suppose."  
“What’s bewitching you tonight, love?”  
“Your smell.”  
“My smell?”  
“Yes, the evergreen element is definitely fir cones. Definitely.”  
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”  
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m used to it.”


	75. Chapter 75

“Did you enjoy your little trip, Sherlock? Feeling rested?”  
“Yes. If you’ve a point to make, make it quickly, please.”  
“Why is it that you treat me like some sort of villain?”  
“Why is it that you treat me like my life is constantly on the brink of implosion?”  
“Isn’t it?”  
“Don’t pretend you actually want to speak to me when all you want is to annoy me. Aren’t there more efficient ways for you to do that?”  
“Just checking in.”  
“No need. If I die, I’ll text you. Otherwise, assume I’ve got it sorted.”  
“Like you had it sorted with Moriarty.”  
“I did have it sorted with Moriarty!”  
“Do you really believe that?”  
“I’m not a child, Mycroft.”  
“No? You’re playing at domestication, aren’t you?”  
“I’m not playing at anything.”  
“Ah, then this is the new you?”  
“That’s right. Handsome, brilliant, successful, and happy. Who knew it was possible? Well, if anyone could do it, I could. I think you know what’s coming next, don’t you? All together now, fuck off, Mycroft!”  
“Until next time, Sherlock.”

...

“I thought Mycroft had come around on me.”  
“You’ve never been the real problem.”  
“That’s good, I suppose. What’s the real problem?”  
“Much of my adolescence was, ah, misspent. It was...not pleasant for him.”  
“Oh.”  
“Like you and Harry.”  
“Oh! You’re Harry?”  
“Was. To a degree.”  
“God. Well, that was fifteen years ago, wasn’t it?”  
“My misspent adolescence lasted until I was thirty-two. Intermittently.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yes.”  
“Wait, how is it that you’ve got a misspent youth? Weren’t you off honing the science of deduction?”  
“The cocaine helped with the work. Until it didn’t.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yes.”  
“So I’m Clara?”  
“Yes.”  
“But you’re clean now.”  
“Yes. But there are things you don’t forget, aren’t there?”  
“Yeah. I suppose there are.”

...

“I know it isn’t the done thing with the Holmeses to just say what’s on your mind, but we’re all three of us men of action, so you and I may as well be a bit more direct with each other, don’t you think, Mycroft?”  
“Oh, do you consider yourself a Holmes now?”  
“See, that was an example of being indirect. I just wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about him. He’s got me. And he’s looking after himself.”  
“Ah. Well. For now.”  
“You’d get on with him better if you’d stop treating him like an irresponsible kid.”  
“With respect, John, you may be a bit out of your depth.”  
“Bloody hell, Mycroft. I do know him. We’re quite close. With the marriage and all.”  
“How long have you known him, John? Five years?”  
“Nearly five years. Five years in January.”  
“I’ve known him thirty-seven years. You’re not going to tell me anything about him that I don’t know.”  
“Well. I don’t know what I was expecting from this.”  
“Nor do I.”

...

“John, please don’t do that again.”  
“Sorry.”  
“I understand the impulse, but. Don’t. It’s pointless.”  
“Yeah, so it is. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“I won’t do it again.”  
“Thank you.”  
"He's dead wrong about you, you know."  
"Thank you, John."  
"He is."  
"Thank you. Really."  
"I mean it."  
"I know you do."


	76. Chapter 76

“John, are we collectively dating Molly Hooper?”  
“Er, I’m afraid I’ll need that question decoded before I can try to answer it, love.”  
“Why is she always round the flat?”  
“That’s what dating is to you, is it? When some one just keeps turning up at your flat?”  
“Most of it. The tidy bit.”  
“Ah, well most people consider the untidy bit to be the operative bit.”  
“We’re digressing, John.”  
“Oh I don’t know. I think it’s salient. Anyway, no, we are not dating Molly Hooper. Tidy or untidy.”  
“You keep asking her round for tea.”  
“Well, she keeps doing us favours. Seems like good manners. Keeps doing you favours anyway. Besides she’s been round three times in two months. Not that much.”  
“Favours? What do you mean favours? What sort of favours?”  
“You’re joking, right? Where did you get that bag of toes you brought home today?”  
“The bag of toes warrants a cup of tea?”  
“At least a cup of tea, depending on who removed the toes.”  
“I did.”  
“But she still had to know about it.”  
“It didn’t do her any harm.”  
“Did she watch you cut them off?”  
“No one made her watch.”  
“I think you owe her a meal, then. Anyway, don’t you like Molly? We’re friends, aren’t we?”  
“I was just wondering if something had changed. Seems different.”  
“She’s just warming up to you.”  
“Warming up to me? Hasn’t she always been warm? You’ve seen her blog.”  
“God. No, not that. She doesn’t-nevermind. You’re a bit scary, love. She’s just working out how to talk to you without feeling an arse. She’s getting on better now you’re being somewhat polite to her. Sometimes.”  
“Scary?”  
“Yes, Montresor. Bit scary.”  
“Did you have to warm up to me?”  
“No, love. I like to be scared.”  
“Oh, right. So you do.”

...

“John, something awful has just occurred to me.”  
“Let’s have it, then.”  
“We’re sweet together, aren’t we?”  
“Yes, love, I’m afraid so.”  
“How bad is it?”  
“Very bad. Painful to look at.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“I knew it would only hurt you.”  
“How do we put a stop to it?”  
“There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid. If it helps, you can think of it as chemistry.”  
“I do like chemistry.”  
“I know you do, love.”

…

“Have you been wearing my jumpers?”  
“Yes, I wear them in the flat when you’re away. Have you only just noticed? I’ve been doing it for quite a while.”  
“The elbows are all stretched out.”  
“My arms are longer than yours.”  
“Yes, I noticed. Why’ve you been wearing my jumpers?”  
“They smell of you. It’s comforting.”  
“Fir cones?”  
“Among other things.”  
“What sort of things?”  
“Well, you smell of tea and wool and fir cones and sometimes sort of buttery. It’s more obvious on your clothes than your skin. Different notes are stronger on different parts of your body. Your scalp mostly smells of butter and fir cones. It doesn’t sound like they’d be nice together, but they really are.”  
“You’ve been thinking about that for a long time, haven’t you?”  
“Years.”  
“Really? Years?”  
“Yes, since we met, practically. I just worked out the bit about the fir cones. It’d been driving me mad.”  
“And it took you all that time to notice you were in love with me. You really are an idiot.”  
“It’s quite a long scale, John.”


	77. Chapter 77

“Don’t wink at me. You look demented.”  
“You wink at me. In fact, you winked at me when you introduced yourself. That was when I started, er, repressing things.”  
“Ha, I knew it, though I’ve never heard you admit it before. I never repressed it. As we were talking that first time, I distinctly remember thinking, ‘well, even if nothing else, he’ll be nice to look at over breakfast.’”  
“High praise.”  
“Indeed. Now admit you were flirting with me at Angelo’s.”  
“Not on purpose. You were dazzling me. You and the candlelight. That combination should be illegal. It’s unfair.”  
“Yes, Angelo was right about it being romantic.”  
“You can say that word now? You don’t choke on it?”  
“Witchcraft.”

…

“Sherlock, where are my-oh you’ve got them. Of course. Why are you wearing my glasses?”  
“I wanted to see how they’d look. I need a disguise. I don’t much like these, though. The frames don’t suit me.”  
“Now this may stun you, but as they’re for my face, I didn’t get them to suit you.”  
“You and your sarcasm. Where can I get glasses?”  
“You don’t need glasses.”  
“For my disguise, John. These would do in a pinch. Can I have them?”  
“My glasses? No, I use them to see. Remember seeing?”  
“Can I borrow a jumper, then?”  
“Are you dressing up as me for some reason?”  
“No, not exactly. I just want to look a bit, well, cardigan-y.”  
“Cardigan-y? Is that what I look like?”  
“Yes. Did you not know that?”

...

“John, don’t you know when you’re being offered an elbow? I’m trying to be courtly, now take my arm.”  
“Oh thanks, love.”  
“There, isn’t that nice?”  
“Nice for you to have someone so handsome on your arm?”  
“Nice for you to be noticed by someone who’s a proper height even though you’re so close to the ground.”  
“Nice for you to be seen with a truly stylish person?”  
“Nice for you to be helped along so your walking pace resembles that of someone who is actually awake.”  
“Nice for your sophisticated companion to overlook how the humidity has made a bird’s nest of your hair?”  
“You’ve cut me to the quick, John.”  
“Let that be a lesson to you.”  
“I do enjoy a good lesson.”  
“Yes, I noticed.”

...

“Isn’t it strange to think that we’re still getting to know each other?”  
“I’ll always be getting to know you, John. You’re unknowable.”  
“I thought you didn’t like that.”  
“No, it’s wonderful. When I get bored, I can run a few experiments on you. There are always things I need to find out.”  
“Lovely. What sort of experiments?”  
“Tut tut, John. If I tell you, it won’t be usable data, will it?”  
“What are the ethics of unwitting human subjects, Dr Frankenstein? Do you suppose anything has been said on the subject?”  
“Oh, don’t be boring, John. Think of science.”


	78. Chapter 78

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First one's a bit smutty. Forewarned is forearmed.

“You do realise this makes us proper perverts, don’t you?”  
“Shhh, John, if you make me giggle, I won’t be able to do this. It isn’t mannerly to laugh with your mouth full.”  
“Oi! Unzipped not all the way off! What if some one comes?”  
“Some one will, certainly. Just not down the front of his trousers, mm?”  
“Seriously, Sherlock, keep your voice down. We cannot get caught doing this at a crime scene.”  
“It’s not a crime scene anymore; I’ve just solved it. Anyway, judging by the state of you, I doubt this will take long.”

...

“John! Where are you?”  
“Down at the cafe getting a sandwich. I asked you if you wanted anything ten minutes ago, and all you said was ‘mmmm.’ Remember?”  
“Come home at once. I need you.”  
“Five minutes. They’ve just started to make it.”  
“No, John, now!”  
“Why? What’s wrong?”  
“I’m doing an experiment and I’ve got my hands full and my hair is tickling both my ears. It’s unbearable!”  
“Is one of your hands by chance holding your mobile?”  
“No, I used the voice dial.”  
“Just brush it away with your shoulder.”  
“I tried that! Obviously! Come and help me!”  
“I’m not the sort of doctor that attends to nutters, Sherlock. I’ll be back when I’ve got my sandwich. I think you’ll survive.”  
“If you’re lucky.”  
“I feel like we have this conversation about once a week.”  
“And you never get any more sympathetic.”  
“I do admire your persistence, though.”  
“I raise bloody-mindedness to an art form, I’ve heard.”

...

There’s a bird in the flat.  
-SH

 

So?

 

Could you?  
-SH

 

No, Sherlock. I’m at work. Just chase it out.

 

I can’t. It flies at me. It’s so big.  
-SH

 

Are you afraid of it?

 

No.  
-SH

 

It’s alarming to have something fly at your face, John. Something with claws.  
-SH

 

So you are afraid of it, then.

 

I’d rather not be clawed and risk some kind of bird foot bacterial infection.  
-SH

 

In my face, John.  
-SH

 

It flies at my face.  
-SH

 

It’s only a bird, Sherlock.

 

Come get rid of it, John.  
-SH

 

It’s taking over.  
-SH

 

It’s on the worktop.  
-SH

 

Sherlock, don’t let it walk on the worktop! It’s probably got salmonella.

 

You know I’d come to you, if you asked me to.  
-SH

 

Just chase it out!

 

You’re being completely useless.  
-SH

 

I’m not the one frightened of a bird.

 

Oh god, John. It’s touching the kettle! Do something!  
-SH


	79. Chapter 79

“How can you eat cold chips?”  
“They were hot when I started to eat them. Someone interrupted my dinner.”  
“Whoops.”  
“Go away, you arse and leave me to my cold chips.”  
“Shall I fix you something else?”  
“All you can make are soldiers.”  
“Actually, I can’t soft boil an egg.”  
“So what were you going to make?”  
“I don’t think we’ve got anything in, actually. Shall I take you out to dinner, then?”  
“Oh, cheers love.”  
“Nippy out, I think. Would you like your scarf?”  
“Yeah, thanks.”  
“There you are, John. You do look nice.”  
“I should be annoyed with you, you dick.”  
“But you can’t somehow.”

...

“John, you keep falling asleep with your arm on my side of the bed.”  
“Well, you must get to sleep at some point despite the obstacles, because I keep waking with you wrapped around me like a starfish digesting a mussel.”  
“I have to shape around you because you crowd me.”  
“I crowd you?”  
“Yes. You do.”  
“Sherlock, you are a world-champion crowder. God, the first time we slept together, I thought you were going to smother me to death in my sleep.”  
“Would I do that, Fortunato?”

...

“John, milk is not a beverage. It’s to take with tea or pour on cornflakes.”  
“You and your rules.”  
“There’s a right way and a wrong way, John.”  
“You should write a book. ‘How to Live’ by Sherlock Holmes.”  
“If I had the patience to write that, people would read it. It would make the world a better place.”  
“Maybe I’ll write it. ‘How to Live’ by Sherlock Holmes as told to John Watson.”  
“Ambitious. Well, if anyone could, you, John.”  
“Very flattering.”  
“Indeed.”

...

“I do like to see you preen, John.”  
“Preen?”  
“You’ve been straightening your tie for a full minute.”  
“What do you know about ties?”  
“You’re a bit vain, aren’t you?”  
“I just like to look presentable.”  
“You’re more than presentable, John.”  
“Thanks, love. A poet once told me I’ve got eyes like seawater.”  
“What rubbish. He must have been in love with you.”


	80. Chapter 80

“Oh no."  
“What is it?”  
“My cousin Mary’s sent us a wedding present.”  
“Where did you get all these cousins?”  
“She’s the one whose wedding we went to.”  
“Oh. What about the present?”  
“Punch bowl.”  
“See, John, you should have let me warn them in the card.”  
“What should we do with it? Use it as a fruit bowl?”  
“We can think of something more fun, can’t we? Oh, can I shoot it?”  
“Shoot it?!”  
“Oh, please, John! Let me shoot the punch bowl! It’s really got it coming.”  
“No! You are not to shoot the punch bowl, Sherlock!”  
“Oh come on, John. Do let me shoot the punch bowl.”  
“Sherlock, promise me you won’t shoot the punch bowl.”  
“Don’t be boring, John.”  
“Sherlock, if you don’t promise me right now that you won’t shoot the punch bowl, I will confiscate your lock pick.”  
“All right then, I won’t shoot it. Spoil sport.”

...

“What happened here?”  
“Where?”  
“Here on your lip. Where did you get this scar?”  
“Bicycle messenger.”  
“You got into a fistfight with a bicycle messenger?”  
“No. When I was twelve, I went to France with Mycroft. We rowed and I and threw his passport down a sewer, so he pushed me in front of a bicycle messenger. I bit through my lip.”  
“Fucking hell.”  
“Indeed.”  
“I remember you told me that before. During the hiatus.”  
“So I did.”  
“It seemed almost funny at the time. I didn’t realise.”  
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”  
“But here it is just sitting on your face still. Bloody Mycroft.”  
“You’ve got a lot on your face too, John.”

...

“John, where did you get that?”  
“The tea? I made it. I offered you some.”  
“How did you make it?”  
“Oh, are you acknowledging what you’ve done to the kettle now?”  
“Did you use a saucepan?"  
“No.”  
“You didn’t microwave it, did you?”  
“Of course not.”  
“How then?”  
“Er, I’ve got a secret kettle.”  
“What?”  
“Yeah, I’ve got an electric kettle hidden in the flat, so you can’t do anything horrible to it. Got it months ago after the incident with the fingernails.”  
“And toenails. How could you have got a kettle in here and hidden it without me seeing?”  
“Witchcraft.”


	81. Chapter 81

“You do realise you’re holding my hand.”  
“Why shouldn’t I?”  
“You’ve never held my hand at a crime scene before.”  
“Needed a bit of reinforcement.”  
“Here I am.”  
“This is a good one.”  
“I know.”  
“Are you excited, John?”  
“Yes. You know I am.”  
“Good.”

...

Did you leave me a voice mail?  
-SH

 

Yes, doesn’t it have my name on it?

 

What does it say?  
-SH

 

Listen and find out.

 

I’m not going to do that.  
-SH

 

Then you’ll never know.

 

You’re the one who had a message to convey.  
-SH

 

Only something sentimental.

 

Thank you, John.  
-SH

 

Did you listen to it?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

Thank you.  
-SH

...

“The papers keep inventing worse ways to describe me, love.”  
“What is it this time?”  
“‘Sherlock Holmes is rarely seen outside the company of his diminutive companion, John Watson.’ Oh shut up laughing!”  
“What's the story?”  
“It’s barely a story. Just a photo of us leaving the press conference from last week.”  
“Oh, after I solved the kidnapping.”  
“There’s not much about the kidnapping. It’s just a bit about you being a celebrity detective.”  
“What?”  
“They only want an excuse to run photos of you looking all dark and mysterious.”  
“Ugh. How do I get them to stop?”  
“Stop being so handsome?”  
“How do I do that?”  
“You’re buggered, I suppose. I don’t even know where you’d start.”


	82. Chapter 82

“Could you clear this up, please?”  
“It’s an experiment.”  
“Yes, I see that. Could you clear it up, please? I need to do the washing up. We’re all out of mugs and spoons.”  
“Twelve more hours.”  
“Twelve hours?”  
“Yes. Don’t run the water. You’ll ruin it.”  
“You don’t think that’s a bit unreasonable?”  
“Clearly, I don’t. Are you hungry? Shall we go and get something to eat? I can leave this for a bit.”  
“I’m just trying to do the washing up, Sherlock.”  
“Why?”  
“Haven’t you been listening? Mugs and spoons.”  
“You haven’t got any secret mugs?”  
“No, no secret mugs.”  
“You’ve just been so clever lately, I thought perhaps you’d hidden some extra tea things.”  
“Just the secret kettle. Bit annoyed you can’t find it?”  
“I could find it, if I looked for it, John.”  
“Oh, do you need to look for it? You can’t just deduce it off me?”  
“Let’s see. Airing cupboard?”  
“Lucky guess.”  
“Yes, I racked my brains for six seconds and got lucky. You know I never guess, John.”

...

“Get off my ears.”  
“I’m admiring them.”  
“Could you admire them with your eyes and your heart and not your hands?”  
“No.”  
“Are you experimenting on me?”  
“Don’t ask, John. I told you that if you know when I am, it’s not usable data. Scientific rigour, John. I should think a doctor would be able to appreciate that.”  
“Yeah, a scientifically rigorous experiment on how admirable my ears are. I definitely appreciate that.”  
“I’m not experimenting right at this moment. I just very much enjoy your ears. They change colour. That's number 213. Bit of an old one.”  
“Yeah, it’s a sort of warning system. Right now the colour means, ‘keep off my ears, Sherlock.’”  
“I’ve already set meanings to the different colours, John.”  
“You madman.”  
“I love it when you say that.”  
“I noticed.”

...

“John, what have you done to your sock index?”  
“Ignored it.”  
“How can you find anything in all this chaos?”  
“With my eyes.”  
“You don’t wear odd socks, do you?”  
“Well if I did, you’d know, wouldn’t you? The moon would crash into the Earth. Or would you notice that? It is part of the solar system, after all.”  
“You and your clever remarks, John.”  
“I do my best.”  
“Do you? How sad.”


	83. Chapter 83

“Look who’s followed me home, John,” Sherlock said as he walked into the flat with Molly just behind him one evening. “Shall we keep her?”

“Hello Molly,” I said, taking her coat and hanging it on the hook. “I was just about to put the kettle on.”

“Thanks, John, that sounds nice,” she said, following Sherlock to the table. He actually cleared one side of it before sitting down at his microscope (to be fair, in the process he knocked a large stack of newspapers onto the floor and took no notice at all).

“Tea, Sherlock?” I offered, filling the (no longer) secret (but sacrosanct)(rule five!) kettle.

“Thank you, John,” he said. He walked out of the room removing his coat and scarf and returned a moment later with his dressing gown on over his pyjama trousers and t shirt.

“Don’t stand on ceremony,” I said.

“Don’t be silly, John,” he said, settling himself on his chair and leaning over his microscope. “It’s only Molly.”

“Sherlock!” I said. “Be pleasant.”

“I think he meant it as a compliment,” said Molly.

“I did,” said Sherlock looking up from his microscope to raise his eyebrows at me.

“Oh. Sorry, love. Somehow even your compliments sound insulting.”

“Not when you’re paying attention,” said Sherlock. I brought a tin of biscuits and three plates to the table and bent to kiss Sherlock. “You’re making a mockery of the hello kiss window, John,” he said.

“Your mouth’s been busy with clever remarks,” I said after I’d gotten him kissed.

“If you wait for an opening, you’ll be waiting a long while, John.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Molly. Sherlock and I turned in unison to look at her. “In the conversation! An opening to participate in the conversation.”

I laughed. “Yes, that too. Best not to wait until Sherlock stops enjoying the sound of his own voice.”

“A forgivable failing in my case, I think,” Sherlock said.

“Hark who’s talking,” said Molly.

“What? Me?” I said.

“You do enjoy delivering a lecture, John,” said Molly. Sherlock snorted. The kettle clicked, and I went to see about the tea.

“So,” Molly said when we were all settled with our mugs and our biscuits, “Now you’re married, will you have a baby?”

Sherlock choked on his tea. When he was done coughing theatrically, he said, “Look what you’ve done to me, Molly Hooper. I hope you’re satisfied; you could have killed me. And I got tea on my slide.”

“That’ll be your answer, Molly,” I said grinning. “I don’t know why he’s acting so shocked, as if we’d never discussed this.”

“You’d be good parents,” said Molly.

Sherlock waved dismissively, “Easily done.”

“Loads of people manage to botch it somehow,” said Molly.

“So they do,” said Sherlock quietly. The three of us paused to consider the respective ways we’d been botched. “You’d make a good parent, Molly,” Sherlock said. “If you decided to be one, we’d be very fond uncles, wouldn’t we John?”


	84. Chapter 84

Sherlock has been studying my hands lots lately. It started last week when he noticed a new callus on the inside of my left little finger.

“Your ring is too big for you, John,” he said. “We must have it resized. This callus has to be weeks old, at least. How could it have taken me so long to notice this? I hold your hand all the time.”

“Can you really get that much information just from holding them?”

Sherlock frowned at this thought, “Perhaps not.” He lifted my hand and examined it. It was a bit unnerving to watch his eyes bounce around to each scar, freckle, callus, and rough patch. I half-expected him to pull out his magnifying glass. I think he may have been considering it.

He does that to each hand about once a day now. Always rather absent-mindedly as if he were only fiddling with his stress ball. On the sofa while I’m watching telly, in a cab, while we’re queuing in a shop. Once while he was explaining a deduction to Lestrade. Lestrade and I both tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Somehow I didn’t like to pull away.

“You’re just going to keep changing, aren’t you?” he said rather crossly this morning, after he discovered a new freckle (halfway up my left index finger, just above the knuckle)

“Yeah, planning on it,” I said.

“I’ll have to keep a close eye on you.”

“Well, you’re good at that.”

He smiled, “Ah, so I am.”

...

“Back to bed, John. I’m not above restraining you, if necessary.”  
“If you say so, but I’m fine, Sherlock.”  
“How can you say that?”  
“All right, not fine exactly, but there’s no need for so much fuss.”  
“Don’t try to talk; you’re hoarse enough.”  
“I can talk, Sherlock.”  
“I didn’t say you couldn’t, I said you shouldn’t. Drink your tea.”  
“Sherlock, you’re overreacting.”  
“It’s only a cup of tea, John. I just want you to sit still and be quiet and drink your tea.”  
“I’m bored.”  
“You’re not bored. Look at you. You’re all glassy-eyed and exhausted. Just finish your tea and go back to sleep, John. You’ll be all right in a few days.”  
“I know I will. You’re the one being all...”  
“Attentive?”  
“I do feel dreadful.”  
“You look dreadful. You’re all drippy and flushed and unfocused. Have you finished your tea? I’ll have your mug, then. Go back to sleep.”  
“Don’t leave. I’m so bored; stay and talk to me.”  
“John, you need your rest.”  
“Am I boring you?”  
“Don’t be stupid."  
“Don’t make me sit in here on my own with my snot. I can hear you moving around out there. Existing without me. It’s so unfair.”  
“You sound a bit like me.”  
“Yes, that’s what this illness is. I’m turning into a Sherlock. The snot is just my soul running out to make room.”  
“This medicine’s made you a bit funny, I think. Did I give you too much?”  
“Scary hanging round with you, isn’t it? And now I’m turning into you, you haven’t even got me to protect you from you.”  
“Two of me and none of you. Frightening world.”  
“Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe we’ll swap.”  
“I think I’d like that. All the opportunity for experiments.”  
“But then everyone involved would know everything. What about scientific rigour? Now you’re me, does it mean nothing to you, John?!”

...

“Thanks for looking after me, love.”  
“It’s my pleasure, John. Truly.”  
“I’ve properly domesticated you, haven’t I?”  
“Bite your tongue, John.”  
“No, no, consider for a bit. You’re carrying a tea tray. And you just wiped my face with a damp cloth.”  
“You were all sweaty and snotty and disgusting. I thought you liked to look presentable.”  
“You’ve grown quite gentle, haven’t you?”  
“Gentle? When you’re feeling a bit better, I’ll have to show you how wrong you are about that.”  
“Feel free to try. I’m quite looking forward to it.”


	85. Chapter 85

I can hear you singing.  
-SH

 

No, don’t stop.  
-SH

 

Where are you?

 

Down in the street. The window’s open. I can see you, too.  
-SH

 

Oh god. 

 

Why have I never heard you sing before? You sound so happy.  
-SH

 

Forgot the window was open.

 

Don’t be embarrassed. New data, John!  
-SH

 

I’m just a big pile of data in a cardigan to you, aren’t I?

 

Nothing wrong with that.  
-SH

 

Are you still down in the street?

 

No, lurking on the landing. I was hoping you’d start up again.  
-SH

 

Much too embarrassed.

 

Don’t be ridiculous, John.  
-SH

 

Come into the flat and stop lurking.

 

I fancy a lurk, actually. Want to come out and lurk with me?  
-SH

...

“Ah, my esteemed co-lurker! Join me.”  
“What, on the stairs? That looks very uncomfortable.”  
“It is a bit, but I rather like that. Thinking should be a bit uncomfortable, shouldn’t it?”  
“If you say so.”  
“Try it.”  
“Oh, all right then. Slide over.”  
“You’ll get on better if you bend your knees a bit and brace your feet against the steps. Yes, there you are. All right?”  
“Yeah, thanks.”  
“We should spend more time upside down, John, don’t you think?”  
“Your hair is going mad.”  
“Oh, it’s always mad.”  
“I have very strong feelings about your hair, you know.”  
“I did know, actually. I’ve feelings about your hair as well. It’s three different colors. Too many! Perfect somehow, though. Right and wrong at the same time. You always do that. Witch.”  
“God, you really are a mad thing.”  
“John, I do love it when you say that.”  
“That’s why I said it.”  
“We should lie on this staircase indefinitely, John. Or we could jettison ourselves in an escape pod. We could do lots of upside down thinking in zero gravity. Would you like to go live on the moon with me, John?”  
“Yeah, love. Sounds brilliant. You can hire the spaceship. I’m sure you could get a friends and family rate.”  
“Would you sing on the moon, John?”  
“Maybe. If I felt like it.”  
“I don’t mean to pressure you, John, but I am absolutely desperate to hear that again.”  
“When have you ever pressured anyone?”


	86. Chapter 86

“That tickles, John!”  
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”  
“I can’t be held responsible, John. I flail.”  
“Oh, you’re a flailer, are you? I might have guessed.”  
“You’re playing with fire, John. I’ve injured people in the past.”  
“I think I’ll chance it.”

...

"I'm not stupid, you know."  
"I find that every time someone says that to me, they're about to do something abominably stupid. I appreciate the warning, Lestrade. What have you got planned?"  
"I know what you've been doing."  
"Solving your cases for you? I should think so; I'm not particularly subtle about it."  
"After the cases, Sherlock."  
"Oh?"  
"I'm not going to bother asking you not to do that at my crime scenes, but I'll have you know that I won't bother myself about covering for you, when you get caught."  
"One of your people will catch me, you imagine?"  
"You don't exactly have a lot of cache with the Met, Sherlock."  
"Can't think why. You lot'd be lost without John and me."  
"Remarks like that, mainly. You want to watch yourself."  
"Yes, thank you for your input."  
"Really, there are loads of people who'd be happy to see you banned or locked up."  
"Yes, yes, I know. There always have been, haven’t there?”  
“Just a bit of friendly advice.”

…

Slight mishap at the lab. I might look a little alarming  
-SH

 

What happened?

 

Just a little explosion. Have lost most of my eyebrows, though. And my fringe is a bit burnt.  
-SH

 

Are you all right?

 

Fine. Bit of tinnitus.  
-SH

 

Is Molly all right?

 

She’s fine. She was rather annoyed.  
-SH

 

I went and got her a coffee.  
-SH

 

Did that help?

 

No, not at all. She made me clean up.  
-SH

 

The nerve.

 

How’s your coat? That’s the real question.

 

Luckily, I wasn’t wearing it. My clothes are fine, though. Hair is more flammable.  
-SH

 

Did Molly put you out?

 

I’m quite well practised in putting myself out, John.  
-SH

 

You say that like you’re proud of it.

 

Why shouldn’t I be?  
-SH


	87. Chapter 87

“You know you don’t look all that much more mad than usual without eyebrows, love. The fringe helps, I think. Despite the burnt bits. You should probably cut those off.”  
“I’m really past caring how mad I look, John. Per you, I always look a bit mad.”  
“It’s your expression. You always look like you’re plotting something.”  
“That’s considered mad, is it? Planning ahead?”  
“Not planning, plotting. Got any plots going?”  
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”  
“Is that a hint?”  
“You’re the only one who could stop me.”  
“I’m honestly quite flattered you think so.”  
“Well, obviously, John.”

...

“I’m trying to think, John.”  
“I’m not stopping you.”  
“You’re jostling me severely.”  
“You sit right in the middle of the bed. I deserve some, too. You can’t have the whole thing.”  
“I don’t have the whole thing. Shape around me.”  
“Won’t that jostle you?”  
“Shape gently.”  
“Sarcasm, Sherlock. Move over!”  
“John, didn’t I just say I was trying to think? John, stop it! You’re going to fly off and break your arm. Or your neck.”  
“Wishful thinking, Montresor! Try it!”  
“Can we be adults, John?”  
“Really Sherlock, try it. I tried upside down thinking, didn’t I?”  
“Oh, all right then.”  
“See? Thinking better already, aren’t you?”  
“A bit. What do you suppose Mrs Hudson thinks we’re doing?”  
“I’m sure she knows the sound of jumping on the bed when she hears it.”  
“I’m still convinced this will end badly.”  
“Of all the mad things we do together, jumping on the bed is what frightens you. I love it.”  
“I’m not frightened. Only pessimistic.”  
“Well if no one tries to kill us, we’ll be ahead of the game, won’t we?”  
“Oh, John, you and your sunny perspective.”

...

“Look at the size of that stock pot, John. You’d fit in there.”  
“Oh god. My blood just went cold. Are you planning to cook me?”  
“Not planning on it, no. If I did become a cannibal, I’d start with you, though.”  
“Very flattering. You’d be caught straight away, you know. Everyone would notice I was missing. And that you’d suddenly got a massive pot. Bit suspicious, don’t you think?”  
“I’d have to hide the pot, I suppose.”  
“How could you even get it back to the flat from the shop to start with? Get inside it and roll home?”  
“I’d manage somehow. I’m very resourceful.”

...

“You know I love to hear you play, Sherlock, but that is a truly objectionable sound you’re making.”  
“Sorry.”  
“Something bothering you?”  
“Bit bored.”  
“Fancy a walk?”  
“I’m starting to feel a bit like a dog. You take me out for exercise when I misbehave.”  
“Can I tell you something stupid? You’ve just made me remember something.”  
“Of course.”  
“Well. When you were gone, before I knew you’d be coming back, I used to see you everywhere. Some one would have a coat like you or hail a cab like you and for just a tiny second, I’d think I saw you.”  
“Oh god, John. I’m sorry.”  
“Hush, I’m not finished. Anyway, one day out of the tail of my eye, I saw this mass of beautiful, black curls leaning out of a car window, and I had that ghost feeling. I knew it wasn’t you, and I almost didn’t like to look. But I made myself turn just to see, you know. And it was a spaniel.”  
“A spaniel?”  
“Yeah, a spaniel. I laughed. And then I got my phone out to text you because I knew you’d laugh, too. And, well, I smashed my phone. Right on the ground. Smashed it to bits. Startled a bunch of people. But here you are again. And I can tell you things I thought I’d never be able to tell you. You’re back.”


	88. Chapter 88

“Your hair looks nice now you’ve cut the burnt bits out.”  
“I miss my fringe.”  
“Yeah, you were quite vain of your hair, weren’t you? Still looks nice.”  
“It’s too short.”  
“Maybe next time you’ll consider that before setting yourself on fire.”  
“I don’t set myself on fire intentionally, John. In fact I always put myself out.”  
“You just don’t seem all that bothered about not catching fire to start with.”  
“John, if I lived in fear of catching fire, I’d accomplish very little.”

...

“Sorry.”  
“Sorry? Why sorry?”  
“I didn’t mean to bump you.”  
“Molly, we’ve known each other for five years, and you saved my life. And you helped with John. It’s all right if you touch my hand.”  
“I just didn’t mean to bump you. I’m not afraid of your hand.”  
“So long as we’re clear.”  
“You’re not as terrifying as you think you are.”  
“No?”  
“No, especially not without eyebrows.”

...

“You do realise you’re moaning, don’t you?”  
“What? I didn’t say anything.”  
“Like hmmm, moaning.”  
“No, I wasn’t!”  
“Yeah, you were, Sherlock. Not that I object to you enjoying my skilled ministrations. But not in a cab, if you don’t mind. Not to that degree anyway. The cabbie’ll think we’re a pair of perverts.”  
“We are a pair of perverts.”  
“Not in a cab, we’re not. It’s not good manners.”  
“Oh manners. Manners are boring.”  
“Manners are essential.”  
“Well when you do that to my hair, I lose my manners. I have very sensitive follicles.”  
“I do rather like hearing you hmmm like big cat while I fiddle with your hair. Very domestic.”  
“Only you could turn a cab ride to the morgue into a scene of domesticity, John.”  
“Yes, love, domesticity is a talent of mine. Lucky for you.”  
“Indeed.”

…

“Full moon out tonight, love.”  
“You always point that out, John. Did you know?”  
“Do I?”  
“You do.”  
“I suppose I was just wondering how you’re getting on with our spaceship.”  
“Quite well, actually. Got a good lead.”  
“I was a bit surprised to hear you suggest the moon. I thought you disdained the solar system.”  
“I just wanted somewhere I could have you all to myself. I thought of the bottom of the ocean and the inside of a volcano as well, but I decided that the moon would have the best view.”  
“So it would.”  
“You could point out to me when the Earth was full.”  
“I would, of course I would. Got to keep you informed. What would we live on?”  
“Starlight and clever ideas.”  
“Same as always, then.”


	89. Chapter 89

I do enjoy the sight of your tongue, John.  
-SH

 

What?

 

You put it out sometimes when you're concentrating. You're doing it now.  
-SH

 

Where are you?

 

Nearby.  
-SH

 

Befuddled by the yoghurt again?  
-SH

 

Where are you?

 

See if you can find me.  
-SH

 

You arse. I asked you to come along, and you just said shut up John I'm thinking.

 

I was thinking.  
-SH

 

Got bored on my own.  
-SH

 

Fragility of genius.

 

Where the hell are you?

 

You really don't see me?  
-SH

 

This is fun.  
-SH

 

Show yourself.

 

Use your powers of divination, John.  
-SH

 

Or does witchcraft not work in mundane places like Tesco?  
-SH

 

You'll have to use your powers of observation, then.  
-SH

 

I'm finished with the shopping anyway. Want to meet by the till?

 

Only if you find me.  
-SH

 

I'll just leave you in the shop, Mr Clever.

 

Do you suppose I could follow you all the way home without you spotting me?  
-SH

 

If you were feeling childish, I suppose you might entertain yourself that way.

 

I'm almost always feeling childish, John.  
-SH

 

Let's give it a go, shall we?  
-SH

 

I've just found you a little present.  
-SH

 

I've gone through check out now. Do you see me?  
-SH

 

Oh, ignoring my texts, are you? I can see you looking round for me, John. Wrong direction.  
-SH

 

You've got such an expressive face; you look really annoyed, even from this distance.  
-SH

 

You're quite attractive, you know. Do I tell you that often enough?  
-SH

 

No, not nearly enough.

 

You are. Quite.  
-SH

 

Oh you think you can lose me in a cab? No matter, I can still follow you easily enough on foot. Which you well know, don't you?  
-SH

 

How many cabs have we chased down together?  
-SH

 

Not while texting. At least you'll shut up for a bit.

 

Oi! You didn't tell me you were in disguise! Cheat!

 

Bit disappointed you didn't consider it before, John.  
-SH

 

Anyway, it's not much of a disguise.  
-SH

 

Do you like my hat?  
-SH

 

It's my hat. I thought you hated hats.

 

You don't wear it.  
-SH

 

Well, it's a quite a stupid hat.

 

It's no death frisbee.  
-SH

 

I want to kiss you now.  
-SH

 

Get out of the cab. Let's walk home together. I'll meet you by that phone box at the corner.  
-SH

 

All right then. See you in a tic, love.

 

If not sooner.  
-SH


	90. Chapter 90

“Ah, my favourite playmate. Hello John.”  
“Hello love.”  
“Come and give me a kiss before you put the kettle on, John. You do abuse the hello kiss window.”  
“All right then, there you are. Prompt enough?”  
“Thank you, John. Getting better.”  
“So I’m your favourite playmate, am I?”  
“Of course you are.”  
“I’m not a bit too old to be some one’s playmate at thirty-nine?”  
“It’s meant to be a compliment, John. No one else has wanted to play with me since I was four years old and Mycroft left for school.”  
“No one wanted to play with you?”  
“I’m odd. I frighten people.”  
“Perhaps a bit odd, love. But you’re such fun, too.”  
“You really think so, John?”  
“Of course I do. You’re always inventing games and making jokes. I never had so much fun in my life.”  
“Neither have I! Isn’t it lovely to have someone to play with, John?”  
“Yes, love, it really is.”  
“I think it’s what I like best about you John. You play with me.”  
“Not that I shoot people who are not very nice?”  
“Shooting is all very well but relatively common. You make me laugh.”

...

“Sherlock, look at the state of your bedside table. It’s a disgrace.”  
“This again. How you do exaggerate.”  
“Look, you’ve got four glasses each with a half inch of water in it.”  
“My mouth gets dry in the night, John.”  
“Yeah, I noticed. You clear your throat six times, then take the merest flirtation of a sip of water and clunk the glass down, and then you shift around for five minutes and sigh for another ten.”  
“You’re a very vivid storyteller, John.”  
“And it’s not very nice to keep fingernails in an Altoid tin. Bit startling, actually.”  
“Oh, that’s what happened to those.”  
“Sherlock, when you start losing your specimens in the clutter, you’ve got too many specimens and too much clutter.”  
“I’ve more important things to do than housework, John.”  
“The last time I saw you do housework was the day before I moved in, when you tricked me into thinking you might tidy up from time to time by moving a dusty pile of newspapers from a chair to a table. So innocent, the John Watson of five years ago.”  
“You should be grateful I tricked you successfully, John. What if you’d realised I’m untidy, and you hadn’t moved in?”  
“Untidy is a very kind way to allude to your affliction. Nice try, Sherlock, but it’s not going to get you out of a bit of cleaning. What’s this on these tweezers?”  
“Marmite.”  
“Do I want to know why?”  
“I think not.”


	91. Chapter 91

Come and find me.

 

Are you all right?  
-SH

 

Never better.

 

Where are you?  
-SH

 

You tell me, Mr Clever.

 

Are you hiding from me?  
-SH

 

Do you see me?

 

No. Are you nearby?  
-SH

 

Perhaps. Have a look around.

 

I'm in the flat, John. Where are you?  
-SH

 

Come and find me.

 

Give me a clue.  
-SH

 

Oh, giving in already? Not very sporting.

 

No! Not giving in.  
-SH

 

Then come and find me, Montresor. You've got til 8 o'clock.

 

What happens at 8 o'clock?  
-SH

 

If you're on time, you'll see. If not, just go back to the flat, ashamed at your defeat. See you soon, Montresor?

 

Yes!  
-SH

 

The game is on!  
-SH

...

I don’t have much time, so I have to move quickly (my speciality, fortunately). He must have left me something to go on. It wouldn't be a game if he'd just hidden somewhere. Montresor must be a hint. Start with the portrait of Poe in the bedroom. Ah! A note stuck to the back (actually get gooseflesh down my neck when I see John’s handwriting).

Excellent start, Montresor, but quite wrong, I'm afraid. Try again. Get a bit more personal.  
-Fortunato

The portrait would have been too obvious, of course. I know better than to underestimate my John now. More personal, though? What does that mean? Phone goes off in my pocket. I check it. From John, of course.

138  
78

Two numbers. A book code! Try the bookshelf, and there's a volume of Poe there that I don't recognise. Nicely bound (black leather, gilt pages), but new, unlike my copy (early edition, gift from Mycroft after coming top in chemistry; not often handled because of its age). I start to flip to page 138, but there’s a note written on the frontispiece (same portrait of Poe as the one hanging in the bedroom).

I gave this to you for your birthday four years ago. If you'd remembered, you wouldn't have needed the clue on the portrait. Tut, tut, Sherlock. Your lack of sentiment has cost you a bit of time, hasn't it?

 

I do love it when he taunts me. Flip to page 138 and count to word 78. I’m so excited that I keep losing count and have to start over twice. Find it, finally. Hope. Hope? What could that mean? Hope? Hope for what? Consider going into my mind palace, but I don’t have enough time. Hope? Hope to what? My phone goes again.

That’s Mr to you.

Mr? Mr Hope? Ahhhhhh yes (triumphant spin)! I know exactly what that means (Mr Jeff Hope, to be precise). Pull on my coat and scarf and bound out of the flat and down the stairs, hardly pausing to bang the door shut behind me. My arm is up to hail a cab before I’ve even reached the kerb. Two pass me, and I’m dancing with impatience by the time the third pulls up.

Snatch open the door, jump in, and tell the driver, “Roland Kerr Further Education College and quite quickly, please!”

…

Coming to find you, Fortunato.  
-SH

 

Hurry up, then.

...

“Back to our beginnings. Very clever, John.”  
“Well done, you. And about thirty seconds to spare.”  
“Ah, yes eight o’clock. What now?”  
“Now you’ve solved it. Which means you get to take me out to dinner.”  
“Thank you for the game, John.”  
“My pleasure, love. You’re my favourite playmate.”


	92. Chapter 92

“I’m beginning to feel a bit jealous of that peach pit, John. Have you recently taken up with it?”  
“Sorry, what?”  
“That was my polite way of saying that the suckling sound you’re making is painfully irritating.”  
“Firstly, nothing about that was polite. Second, if you think you’re coming between me and this peach pit, you don’t know a thing about it.”  
“Is that a challenge?”  
“Did it sound like one?”

...

“Look John, I’ve had some fan mail.”  
“You hate fan mail. It’s not from a murderer, is it?”  
“No, I don’t think so. Look.”  
“Good lord. Well. That’s very flattering to you, isn’t it? Flattering proportions. God, she's painted me to look exactly like Elton John. Do I really look like that?”  
“Your glasses are less garish. And you don’t often wear a suit.”  
“I’m Elton John in a jumper?”  
“I’m not sure who that is but apparently.”  
“Well, this fan may actually be a murderer, because I think she might stuff us and pose us in her sitting room.”  
“Where shall we hang it?”

…

“Ah, this is a familiar look. Having tea with the queen?”  
“I wouldn’t bother with the sheet, but there’s a draught.”  
“Well it looks nice on you. And it certainly brings back fond memories.”  
“I thought you’d say so.”  
“No need to look so smug. Everyone looks good in a sheet.”  
“At Buckingham Palace?”  
“Not many people have the opportunity to find out, I imagine. If I insisted on wearing the sheet, I don’t think they’d want me enough to haul me off anyway. Don’t know that anyone has ever wanted me to go anywhere that badly.”  
“I certainly have. Would you like me to haul you off in a sheet, John?”  
“Depends where you were taking me.”  
“John! Get off! There’s a draught.”  
“You’ll cope.”  
“You’ve ruffled my naturally modest sensibilities.”  
“I think that may be the most untrue thing I have ever heard you say. No, leave the sheet. You look even better without it.”

...

“Has your laptop offended you, Sherlock?”  
“Hmmm?”  
“You seem to be trying to type it to death.”  
“Some of us have actually learnt to type and can do it with reasonable speed and accuracy. I’d say it comes with practise, but I’ve been watching you abuse your keyboard for five years, and you never seem to get any better.”  
“I get the job done.”  
“Perhaps if you could type properly, you’d bother to update your blog.”  
“I suppose I could write up your most recent case. The one where a handsome blonde man left you enigmatic clues until finally you met. And you were so charmed that you insisted on asking him out to dinner.”  
“It's a good job you’re too scrupulous to actually commit crimes. You’d be a brilliant criminal. I’d be forced to join you, and we’d plunge the world into chaos.”  
“Or retire young and live like kings in Patagonia.”  
“Whichever.”


	93. Chapter 93

“Molly asked me if we’re having a birthday do for you this year.”  
“And what did you tell her?”  
“I told her I’d ask you. What do you want to do, love?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Nothing at all?”  
“The beauty of the word ‘nothing’ is that it is absolute and, as such, needs no qualifiers.”  
“All right then if you're sure.”  
“I’m really not one for birthdays, John.”  
“Yes, I know. I’d be willing to make much of you privately, if it makes a difference to your enjoyment.”  
“It all just seems a bit forced and ritualistic.”  
“Not your area.”  
“Exactly.”  
“Well I’m not suggesting any of that. If you change your mind, we can have cake and silly hats and presents and party guests. But when I say I want to make much of you privately, I’m being, er, euphemistic.”  
“Ah. Oh.”  
“You’re a bit slow to cotton on when it comes to some things, love.”  
“I don’t know why you waste time being euphemistic.”  
“Not every expenditure of time is a waste, Sherlock.”  
“Indeed. Well. I’d be willing to be made much of privately. Can I have the cake and the euphemisms and none of the rest of it?”  
“Of course, love. Anything you like.”

...

“Did your brother send you anything nice for your birthday?”  
“Like a train set? Or a model rocket?”  
“Or maybe a little recorder so you can capture all your clever jokes for posterity.”  
“My brother doesn’t send me birthday presents, Molly.”  
“Would it have been so hard to just say that?”  
“No, but now I’ve been a bit rude about it, you don’t pity me for not getting on with my brother.”  
“I don’t get on with my brother.”  
“You’ve got a brother?”  
“A younger brother. Reggie.”  
“Well you and John and I should form a club for disenchanted siblings.”  
“What about John?”  
“Yes, John too. Didn’t I say?”  
“No, I mean did he give you anything nice?”  
“Yes, very.”  
“What did he give you?”  
“Something personal, Miss Nose.”  
“If I’m Miss Nose, you must be King Nose.”  
“Never said I wasn’t.”

…

I’m glad you’re still alive, Sherlock. Many happy returns.  
-M

 

As am I. Thank you.  
-SH

...

Come round for tea and cake this afternoon at 4?  
-SH

 

Are you having a birthday party?  
~Molly~

 

No.  
-SH

 

Excess cake.  
-SH

 

That sounds like a birthday party to me.  
~Molly~

 

It isn’t.  
-SH

 

Shall I bring some balloons?  
~Molly~

 

If you’re determined to bring balloons, I can’t stop you, but you won’t be let in with them.  
-SH

 

I’m sure John will arrange enough balloons.  
~Molly~

 

No balloons.  
-SH

 

It isn’t a party.  
-SH

 

And I’m turning thirty-seven, not seven.  
-SH

 

All right if I bring my present to your unbirthday party?  
~Molly~

 

You don’t have to give me a present.  
-SH

 

I know. That’s the definition of a present.  
~Molly~

 

Thank you for the vocabulary lesson. Will we see you this afternoon?  
-SH

 

Obviously.  
~Molly~

 

I’ve had a bad influence on you, haven’t I?  
-SH 

Don't flatter yourself.  
~Molly~


	94. Chapter 94

Molly turned up right at four (16:00:37 GMT) wearing a casual expression that she likely practised while ascending the steps to the flat. John would say that’s rude, so I won’t mention it aloud while she’s here. May ask him what he thinks later, if I haven’t already decided. John cut her a slice of cake and poured a cup of tea, and she dropped into my chair to eat. To annoy me, I think. No, that’s silly. She doesn’t know how I feel about my chair. The impression in the cushions is shaped like me, and I don’t like it rearranged. Takes all afternoon to get it back into its proper shape, and I don’t like to sit still that long. I don’t often say that to people, even I know it sounds mad.

She’s still here, forty-five minutes later, nursing her second piece of cake and chatting to John about something. Not sure what. Haven’t been paying attention. I’ve been sitting at the table, trying to type up some notes from my little book. My handwriting may be deteriorating. I know I’ve been squinting at this page for fifteen minutes now.

“All right, love, you’ve convinced us,” John addresses me suddenly. Probably not suddenly. Haven’t been listening to their conversation.

“Hmm?”

“It’s not a birthday party. Could you take a break from your notes and come chat with us for a bit? Molly’s got to leave soon.”

“I’ve got a present for you, Sherlock,” Molly says, as if she thinks that will coax me.

“I’ve nowhere to sit,” I tell them, looking at Molly. John rolls his eyes, but Molly comes to sit across from me at the table. John follows her. She lifts her bag from the back of a kitchen chair, rummages in it for a moment and takes out a grey box that’s tied with a blue ribbon. Nothing romantic about that. Wish that thought hadn’t popped into my head, but I’ve been on the watch for all that since our Christmas party. Wouldn’t do to repeat any of it. I shut my laptop and take the box (obviously a fountain pen, going by the size, shape, and weight of the box). I start to untie the ribbon.

“Card first,” Molly says. I flip open the card.

For posterity.  
x Molly x

I look at Molly and raise my eyebrows.

She grins, “Go on, then. Open it.” Untie the ribbon, pop open the box. Fountain pen (obviously).

“Thank you. This is very handsome.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“A pen.”

“It’s a little recorder. And a pen. The top is a memory stick.” Lift the pen out of the box to look closer. Ah, of course. So it is. Here's me theorising without enough data. “It does video and audio. See the little camera?” She comes round to my side of the table to point out a tiny black dot on the shaft of the pen.

“Thank you, Molly.” I bend and kiss her on the cheek. I can feel her face change shape as she smiles.

“Just wanted to see that your genius is preserved. For future generations. Just turn the cap to the left and tap the top here twice quickly to record and again to stop.”

I turn the cap, tap twice and say, “Molly Hooper is a very thoughtful smart arse.” She laughs. “Just for the information of future generations.”


	95. Chapter 95

“I bought this for you before you asked me not to give you anything, so I kept it until after your birthday.”  
“So it isn’t a birthday present?”  
“No, just a monocular for no particular reason.”  
“Oh, I did need a monocular. Lost mine about a month ago.”  
“I know. This one’s quite a good one, too. It’s tactical.”  
“Thank you, John. How thoughtful.”  
“Have a look at the lens cloth. It’s in the case.”  
“The Jolly Roger?”  
“If you ever decide to pack in all this do-goodery for a life of piracy, I’ll be more than happy to join you.”  
“Thank you, John. I must remember that.”  
“Do. We’d be excellent pirates.”  
“So we would. Where did you get the impression that I have an interest in piracy?”  
“Don’t you?”  
“Yes. Thought I was keeping it hidden.”  
“Call it my powers of divination.”  
“A witch pirate. The high seas don’t stand a chance.”

…

“Here, this is for you.”  
“Have you brought me an ice lolly?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Er, why?”  
“They’re refreshing. You’re sweating and all your face dabbing and lip licking is distracting me. And I know you like pineapple.”  
“I can’t eat an ice lolly in the middle of a crime scene.”  
“Why not?”  
“It lacks proper gravitas.”  
“Oh you’re brimming with gravitas at crime scenes, John. You've a very respectable scowl on right this minute. You can afford to eat an ice lolly.”  
“You could’ve said you were leaving, you know. We thought you’d wandered away.”  
“I didn’t want to miss the cart. I had to run.”  
“You ran after the ice cream man?”  
“He was about to cross the road.”  
“Didn’t you get anything for yourself?”  
“Of course not, John. It’s a crime scene.”

…

“Well, that was embarrassing.”  
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”  
“I know, but I’ve never been thrown out of a cafe before.”  
“Sorry. Bit on edge. I need some coffee.”  
“You need to sleep.”  
“I’ll be fine after I’ve had a bit of caffeine.”  
“I think you’re more than a cup of coffee away from appropriate social behavior, Sherlock. It’s been seventy-eight hours.”  
“I’m fine. We’re close. Let’s just go straight to Bart’s. I need to look at these water samples anyway.”  
“Just so you know, after we’ve solved the case and you’ve had some sleep and you can behave, you’re going back to apologise. And you’re going to really lay it on, too.”  
“Why?!”  
“Shouting at baristas is not on. Ever. Got it?”  
“She ignored me for five minutes! I just wanted a bloody cup of coffee!”  
“Yes, I heard you before. She was just a kid. You made her cry.”  
“Did I?”  
“Yes, didn’t you see?”  
“Let’s go back now, then. We can spare a few minutes.”  
“They won’t let us in.”  
“Well, remind me tomorrow then. Should have this case solved by then. Have you got the address of the cafe?”  
“I’ll write it down.”  
“Don’t let me forget, John.”  
“I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Sherlock’s birthday is 6 January which is not the time of year for chance encounters with the ice cream man. I don't really have an excuse for that. I just like the mental image of Sherlock running after the ice cream man. Hope you'll all forgive me :)


	96. Chapter 96

“Can’t I leave you on your own in the flat for a day without you destroying it or nearly killing yourself?”  
“I’m fine, John.”  
“You’re still shivering. Finish your tea. Didn’t it occur to you that it might get a bit chilly with all the windows open? It’s below freezing out; you could have got hypothermia!”  
“Yes, you’ve said. I had to let the fumes out, didn’t I?”  
“Of all the bloody stupid ways to die, Sherlock! Of a fucking nap! Jump off a building, get stabbed, no problem, but you can’t work out how to have a sleep on the sofa without topping yourself? How could you be such an idiot, Sherlock?!”  
“Right. Well. I think I’ve had enough of this. I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back later.”  
“You can’t go out now; you’re not warm enough yet.”  
“Permit me the luxury of my own judgement, John. Good night.”

...

Rule two, Sherlock.

 

Answer your phone, you tosser.

 

So you’re ignoring me? Brilliant.

 

Just text me back and let me know you’re not an icicle.

 

Sherlock? You’re still alive?

 

Busy.  
-SH

 

Where are you?

 

Morgue.  
-SH

 

That’s not funny, Sherlock.

 

Not a joke, John. Bart’s morgue. I'm working.  
-SH

 

Rule two, Sherlock.

 

John, you really don’t have the high ground here, do you?  
-SH

 

Storming off into a dark, freezing night after an argument when you’re on the brink of hypothermia gives you the high ground?

 

Shouting at me and calling me names because I made a mistake gives you the high ground?  
-SH

 

I’m sorry.

 

Will you come home, love?

 

Will you answer your phone at least, so I can apologise properly?

 

Sherlock, I’m sorry.

...

“Oh hello John. Not too cold to leave the flat, then? You didn’t turn into a block of ice as soon as you’d opened the door?”  
“I’m really sorry, love. I shouldn’t have said all that or shouted at you. I was really out of order.”  
“So you were.”  
“Do you forgive me?”  
“I suppose so.”  
“Will you come home?”  
“When I’m finished. Get me a coffee, will you? I’m still cold.”  
“Are you still angry with me?”  
“Wouldn’t you be?”  
“Yes, I suppose I would.”  
“What would you want me to do, if I’d said what you said to me?”  
“I’m sorry I said those things. I don't know what to say.”  
“You’re actually still angry with me as well, aren’t you? Why?”  
“Sherlock, I’m apologising. You really want me to get into that?”  
“Of course I do. Tell me.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“John, I’m always sure. Out with it.”  
“Well, I'm not angry exactly. Sometimes I feel like you’re careless because you know I’ll turn up to sort it for you.”  
“I don’t do that. But you will.”  
“Of course I will. Still. It's a lot to have on my mind. Do you think could be a little more careful, love?”  
“I don’t mean to take advantage.”  
“I know you don’t, love. It’s not just that. I don’t want you to freeze to death in the flat because I did the shopping on the way home instead of coming straight back. Or blow yourself up or any of that.”  
“Murder-suicide, John.”  
“Right, Sherlock. Murder-suicide. We promised.”  
“That’s sorted, then. Get me a coffee?”


	97. Chapter 97

"Do you need me tonight, love?"  
"Always."  
"Anything in particular? Thought I'd go see a film with Molly."  
"With Molly?"  
"Yeah, you're welcome to come along if you can sit through it. If you come and walk out, you'll be walking out alone. Unless it's awful, of course."  
"They're all awful."  
"And that's why I'm going with Molly and not with you."  
"John, I imagined that after we were married, you'd stop going on dates with women. Am I mistaken?"  
"It's not a date, love. We're just going to the cinema. And you're invited."  
"I hate going to the cinema."  
"Yeah, I know or I'd have mentioned it earlier."  
"So it isn't a real invitation, is it?"  
"Do you want me to text you when the film is over? We might get a pint after."  
"I hate pubs."  
"I know! That's why I'm going with Molly and not you. I like films and pubs and pints."  
"Hmph."  
"Oh, don't look like that. Come along, if you want the company."  
"I'll come along if we can do something interesting."  
"The activity's been chosen, love. Got to dash. Come if you're coming. Otherwise, text me if you've got a case. Er, but not to to ruin my evening, all right? I'll be back before midnight."  
"You're spending five hours with Molly Hooper?"  
"Maybe. Dnno yet, do I? I haven't even left the flat."  
"How would you even spend five hours seeing a film and getting a pint?"  
"Come along, if you're curious. But I'm walking out the door in ten seconds. Want me to count down while you think?"  
"Fine, fine. Go. See you in five hours."  
"If you get hungry, there's that tart leftover on the worktop. Don’t sulk all night or your face will stick like that.”  
“Oh, very funny, John.”

...

“Hullo, love. Did you have a nice night?”  
“Fine.”  
“Oh, Sherlock, you’re not still annoyed, are you? I told you to come along, if you wanted the company.”  
“It wasn’t a real invitation.”  
“Since when do you wait for a real invitation?”  
“I don’t like to insert myself where I’m not wanted.”  
“You were wanted. I just didn’t want you to go, if you were only going to hate it. Of course I wanted you. I always want you.”  
“Not as much as you wanted to see a film and have a drink with Molly.”  
“You’re not jealous, are you? I asked you to come along!”  
“No, I’m not jealous! Or at least I’m not worried that you’re going to take up with her or something ridiculous like that.”  
“What then?”  
“It just makes me feel like I did before. Back before I was dead when you’d go off and have fun with other people. And I’d just feel out of sorts and wrong-footed, and I couldn’t work out why I felt that way. I can’t be friends with other people the way you can. Easily and naturally. It doesn’t come to me.”  
“Love, I’ve known Molly for years. It’s easy enough to spend an evening with her because we’re friends. You’re friends with her as well. You spend more time with her than I do. She’s more your friend than mine, if we’re all quite honest. She and I just happen to like seeing naff films and drinking beer, and we haven’t got anybody else to do those things with. If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got about four friends, and one of them is you. It’s not easy for me either. And I’d love to have you come along. So would Molly. We just don’t want to put you through it for our sakes when we know you hate it. If you like, we can all go out together and do something Sherlock-approved. What’s that look? Are you still upset?”  
“No.”  
“Then what’s wrong?”  
“I feel a complete arse. I’m sorry, John.”  
“It’s fine, love! You’re a person. You’ve got feelings. Thanks for letting me in on them.”  
“Thank you for badgering them out of me.”  
“Ha, my pleasure.”

...

“John, I love you.”  
“I love you too, Sherlock.”  
“Hmmm.”  
“Are you taking notes?”  
“No. Unrelated matter.”  
“Are you experimenting on me?”  
“John, I’ve already told you not to ask me that. You know I can’t say.”  
“Let’s have it, then. Cat’s out of the bag now.”  
“We’ve just been a bit out of step lately. I wondered if that would help.”  
“Did it?”  
“Inconclusive.”  
“Well, you didn’t wait long.”  
“I intended to wait longer.”  
“Sorry about that. I suppose it was my fault.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“See if a kiss helps.”  
“Going by your expression, I suspect it will.”  
“Now, now. It doesn’t do to theorise without data.”  
“Right you are, John. By all means, let’s try the experiment.”  
“...Well?”  
“Inconclusive. Further data required.”  
“Well, as it’s for science. And you’ve got the world’s most gorgeous mouth.”  
“There’s the spirit of scientific inquiry I’ve been looking for. I always knew you had it in you, John.”


	98. Chapter 98

“Enough sleeping, John. I’m bored. Oh good, you’re awake.”  
“Ha, you mean you’ve just waked me. What time is it?”  
“Six. I’ve been up since four, though.”  
“Four? Why?”  
“There was a bird.”  
“Singing?”  
“Squawking. And looking in the window.”  
“I forgot you’re afraid of birds. Somehow. Despite that, er, debacle.”  
“It was hardly a debacle. I’m not afraid of them, John. They’re expressionless. I don’t care for that. Impossible to deduce.”  
“Why would you need to deduce a bird?”  
“If you’re in close quarters, it’s good to be able to predict their movements. Some birds are quite dangerous.”  
“What about the one that was looking in the window? Dangerous?”  
“Well it was only a starling. Still. It looked underhanded.”  
“What if there were a criminal organisation comprised entirely of birds? Could you make anything of it?”  
“I’ve never seen an organisation I could make nothing of.”  
“Birds, though. They have claws. You’d be at constant risk of some kind of bird foot infection. Perhaps in your face. I hear they fly at your face.”  
“Sometimes I suspect you don’t take me entirely seriously, John.”

...

“I think three days is the hard limit.”  
“Hmm?”  
“To spend in your dressing gown and pyjamas. Then it’s time to get dressed and leave the flat. Trust me, I know. I’ve spent way too much time unemployed.”  
“Different pyjamas from yesterday, John.”  
“Right, but that wasn’t exactly my point.”  
“And what do you propose I do in this world outside the flat that I’ve heard rumours of?”  
“You could turn cartwheels.”  
“Turn cartwheels?”  
“There isn’t room in here. If you started from right there, you’d pitch right into the fireplace. If you started over there, you’d destroy the coffee table. Oh, I know that look. Please don’t set about proving me wrong. If you want to turn cartwheels, do it out of doors, please.”  
“I think I could do it in the hall.”  
“Lord. This backfired on me. It was only an example of something you can’t do in here.”  
“Now you’ve whetted my curiosity.”  
“That’s me. Your whetstone. But no cartwheels in the flat or the hall, if you don’t mind. You’ll wheel yourself down the stairs and break your neck.”  
“Well, I can’t do them on the sidewalk, can I?”  
“More room out there, at least.”  
“I’m going to have to look out for a good place.”  
“Will you do one thing for me and give me a warning before you cartwheel?”  
“Now, John. Where would be the fun in that?”

...

“John, it’s been winter for years.”  
“Er, no, not years. Few months, same as always. What do you care anyway? You’ve always got that coat and scarf on. Don’t know that they have much to do with keeping you warm, do they? You just think you look cool.”  
“If I have to hear one more person complain about the snow, I’m going to turn into an omnicidal maniac.”  
“That’d be quite a change, wouldn’t it?”  
“You’re still alive, aren’t you? Obviously I’m not an omnicidal maniac yet.”  
“Well even if you did turn omnicidal, you’d spare me, I think.”  
“Oh you think so?”  
“So I could fetch and carry. An important omnicidal maniac like yourself wouldn’t bother about carrying his own bags.”  
“Could I still call myself omnicidal if I spared you to be my porter?”  
“I wouldn’t tell anyone. Besides, once the rest of them were gone, you could redefine the word ‘omnicidal’ to mean ‘all except John.’”  
“I’m not much one for redefining words, John.”  
“Well, we all have our limits.”


	99. Chapter 99

“Did you hear that bang, John?”  
“No.”  
“Go and look out the sitting room window.”  
“Why?”  
“To find out what that noise was.”  
“I didn’t hear a noise.”  
“I did. Just go and have a look for me, John.”  
“How am I even supposed to know what I’m looking for? You go.”  
“I’ll look if it turns out to be something. Just look out the window and tell me what you see.”  
“Fine, then. Oh my god!”  
“What? What is it?”  
“I don’t even know what to say. I don’t know how to describe it. Good god. I’m speechless.”  
“Just tell me what you see, John. What is it?”  
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”  
“Very funny, John.”  
“Ha, sorry. Nothing out here. Probably a fox in the bins, love.”  
“It is a capital mista-”  
“Mistake to theorise without data. Yes, so we’ve heard. You’re so keen, come and have a look yourself.”  
“Hmm. It’s a cat. See the tail?”  
“Oh well done you. Case solved. Good thing the world’s only consulting detective was here.”  
“Well, I would have asked you for one of your post-case celebrations in the coat cupboard, but I think I’ve gone off you now. Don’t fancy a man with such a smart mouth.”  
“Liar.”

...

“Stand still, John. There’s a spider on your sleeve.”  
“What?!”  
“I said stand still. I’ll knock it off.”  
“Hurry!”  
“It’s only a little spider, John.”  
“The little ones are the most poisonous! Get it off, Sherlock!”  
“I will, if you’ll stop dancing about like that.”  
“I’m not dancing, I’m ooh! panicking! Get it off! I don’t like spiders!”  
“Yes, I can see that. Just stand still. See? Harmless.”  
“Ugh, don’t let it crawl about on you like that. Ugh, ugh. Just kill it.”  
“John, why-”  
“I just don’t like them! Stop making me look at it!”  
“All right, then I’ll put it out in the hall.”  
“Hurry, it’s going to get away!”  
“It’s not going to get away, John. I’ve got it. Oh.”  
“What? Did it get away?”  
“No, I’ve killed it.”  
“Oh. Sorry love.”  
“It was only a spider.”

...

"What's that you're whistling, John?"  
"Oh, sorry love. I forgot you don't like it."  
"Is that the piece I composed for you?"  
"Yeah, I suppose it sounds awful whistled."  
"John, this is an historic moment."  
"Is it?"  
"You're the first person ever to whistle something I composed."  
"Am I?"  
"The very first."  
"That is historic."  
"I'm glad you understand, John. I'm not sure I could explain it."  
"I still remember the first time someone quoted something I’d written back to me. It was you, actually."  
"Was it? What was I quoting?"  
"'Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds...'"  
"Ah, of course. Among the first of your enamoured natterings."  
"I’ll excuse your impertinent tone and phrasing because I know how much my enamoured nattering thrills you.”  
“It does thrill me. I very much enjoy being so openly adored. No more than I deserve of course, but it’s nice to have it all so plain and straightforward.”  
“It’s lovely to be openly adored by you as well, Sherlock. Mad and dangerous but lovely.”  
“I don’t think the lovely would suit you without the mad and dangerous.”  
“Well of course not. Matched set, remember?”


	100. Chapter 100

"This is stewed."  
"Well, you left it sitting ten minutes."  
"Make me another?"  
"I'll tell you how to make another, if you've forgotten."  
"Can't you make me another? I'm busy."  
"Busy sitting."  
"Busy thinking."  
"Too busy to drink tea, then."  
"This is really not drinkable, John."  
"No?"  
"I suppose I can get it down. If I must."  
“Thought you might.”  
"You might have a little more pride in your work, John."

...

“Er Sherlock, you’ve got a leaf in your hair.”  
“Have I?”  
“Do you want me to take it out for you?”  
“You may, if it bothers you.”  
“Oh, you’ve got loads of leaves in your hair, actually. Why are you covered in leaves?”  
“I was in a tree earlier.”  
“Why were you in a tree?”  
“Hmmm?”  
“Are you pretending not to hear me because you don’t want to answer?”  
“Well spotted, Molly.”  
“Boring or secret?”  
“Boring.”  
“I can’t think how it could have been boring to climb a tree.”  
“The climbing was all right. Talking about it is just...”  
“Too boring to finish your sentence?”  
“Right in one.”

...

"Why do you smell all wrong, John?"  
"I don't know what you're talking about, so I'm going to let you answer that one. I suspect you've got an answer all ready."  
"Are you chewing gum?"  
"I think you know that I am."  
"How can you do that?"  
"With my teeth."  
"Gum is so disgusting, John."  
"Do you have a stack of stodginess cards that you read from when you want to ruin other people's fun?"  
"What's fun about gum? It's just a ball of warm, sticky, nonsense that you roll over and over in your mouth for hours at a time until it’s saturated in bacteria. Then you pull it out with your dirty fingers and leave it somewhere inappropriate."  
"Well. That was very vivid."  
"Talent of mine. I have to say more on the subject, but I think I've made my point."  
"Yes, to say the least."

...

“Oh sorry, love. I dropped off.”  
“It’s all right, John. I can think just as well when being used for a cushion as otherwise.”  
“Mmm, you’re more comfortable than you look.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I was going to go to bed, but as you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue using you for a cushion.”  
“Yes, John. That’s fine.”  
“Good night, Sherlock.”  
“Good night, John.”


	101. Chapter 101

“John, personal histories are never an accurate recitation of facts; they’re fanciful stories about how we came to be who we are. Even I’m not immune to that.”  
“You’re not making your past sound less intriguing, if that’s the way you think of it.”  
“It’s not intriguing, John. It’s just sad and ugly. I don’t want you to see me that way.”  
“I could never see you that way.”  
“I don’t want you to pity me.”  
“I wouldn’t. But you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”  
“I just don’t know why you’d want to hear it.”  
“I want to know all about you.”  
“I suppose I can understand that.”  
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me.”  
“Could you pass me my violin?”  
“Are you going to play?”  
“I just want to hold it. Hmm. I suppose I can just begin at the beginning."  
"However you like, love."  
"My parents didn’t intend to have me. I was born when Mycroft was seven. My mother was forty-one, and my father was fifty-six. So you see, I’ve always been a force for disruption. My first memory is of my mother telling me I was giving her a headache. You see what I mean about storytelling? Why would I retain that moment as my first conscious moment?”  
“You can’t help what your first memory is.”  
“I can’t remember what I was doing or saying. Just the way her ring caught the light when she put her hand over her eyes and how tired she sounded, ‘Hush, Sherlock. My head.’ I was three years old, I think? Mycroft was there, so I must have been about three.”  
“What did Mycroft do?”  
“He took me out to the garden. That’s what he always did. I must have been asking questions.”  
“Asking questions?”  
“I had to know everything. So they tell me. It annoyed my parents, but Mycroft would try to answer me. I remember he’d look things up in the encyclopaedia for me. But he left for school when I was very small. When I was four. It wasn’t the same after that. He was always on edge after he started school. Like he was afraid of himself. He didn’t like me as much then. After he’d started school. He started to realise that neither of us were quite right, I suppose. He stopped trying to answer my questions for me.”  
“So it was just you and your parents after Mycroft left?”  
“No, mostly just me and my mother. My father worked in London. He had a little flat he’d stay in during the week, and he’d come down weekends. Sometimes. When he wasn't too busy.”  
“Your mum would make soldiers, right?”  
“Sometimes. When she was on.”  
“On?”  
“That’s what I called it then. Sometimes she seemed sort of switched off.”  
“Was she depressed?”  
“I don’t know. I suppose she must have been. I didn't know what to look for then.”  
“What happened to her?”  
“That’s enough for now, I think, John.”  
“Of course.”  
“God, I want a cigarette.”  
“There are two taped to the bottom of an old tea tin in the back of the larder.”  
“Rule three, John.”  
“It’s all right.”  
“No, it isn’t. I can cope. Where are my patches?”  
“I think you finished them during the last case.”  
“ I think I’ll go and get some, then. Come with me?”  
“Of course, love. Anywhere, always."


	102. Chapter 102

“Whoops. You’ve just popped a button.”  
“Have I?”  
“I knew it would happen some time or other; your shirts are so tight.”  
“Ease of movement, John. Where’s the button? I can bring the shirt to my tailor.”  
“For a burst button? I can fix it back on for you.”  
“Can you sew?”  
“Any idiot can fix on a button. Besides remember the bow ties?”  
“I’d managed to delete the bow ties.”  
“I don’t believe you. You loved the bow ties.”  
“All right, I did. Have sympathy for me, John. I can’t help my perverse predilections.”  
“Perhaps not, but bow ties are hardly among the worst of your perverse predilections.”  
“Oh hark who’s talking, Mr Coat Cupboard.”  
“You like a coat cupboard just as much as I do, Sherlock.”  
“True.”

...

"Sherlock, I've got to go."  
"Don't let me keep you."  
"I mean you've got to go as well. I'm leaving in five minutes."  
"Right, on your date."  
"I haven’t got a date."  
"No? I've never seen your knees before."  
"What?"  
"You've changed clothes. New dress?"  
"No, I just always wear trousers in the lab."  
"You've not worn it before. The slit in the back is still stitched together. You're meant to cut the stitches out before you wear it, you know. Would you like me to cut it for you?"  
"No, Sherlock, I don’t want you to cut it. Just mind your own business!"  
"Er, have I said something wrong, Molly?"  
"You don't have to pick me apart like that just because you’ve noticed I’m not telling you something. It's embarrassing."  
"I'm embarrassing you?"  
"Yes!"  
"I'm sorry. I didn't realise."  
"I don't want to talk to you about my dates, Sherlock."  
"Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry."  
"It's fine. But, er..."  
"Yes?"  
"Could you cut the stitches out for me?"  
"Of course. Pass me those scissors and turn around."

...

“Why are you looking at me like that?”  
“You look very romantic right now with the wind in your hair and your scarf blowing out behind you.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Are you aware of exactly how picturesque you are?”  
“I was under the impression that word applies primarily to scenery.”  
“You look a bit like scenery now. You look like you just grew up out of the ground.”  
“What rubbish, John.”  
“Sometimes you look so at ease. Like you’ve always done exactly what you’re presently doing and you’ve been an expert at it the entire time.”  
“This is poetry of the worst sort, John.”  
“You can’t fool me. I know you like me telling you things like that as much as I like saying them.”  
“I wish I could answer in kind.”  
“Really?”  
“Of course, John. Didn’t you know?”  
“I suppose I always think of you as being able to do anything you like.”  
“Almost. Not anything.”  
“No?”  
“Almost.”  
“Near enough to anything.”  
“All right then. Near enough.”


	103. Chapter 103

Sherlock was in rather a mood that morning. All morning really, but particularly at that moment. He was trying to get a cab in front of the flat, but couldn't get one to stop for us. He was muttering some rather colourful invective and waving fervently when we were approached by a fan. She was about eight years old, and she had one long, sandy plait and large, round glasses.

She stood politely waiting to be noticed for a moment before she said, “Excuse me, sir, are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock turned and spotted her. “Yes, I am,” he said a bit stiffly (but far more politely than he would have spoken to me, had I interrupted his cab hailing).

“I saw you on telly. The man said you’re a genius detective. I never saw a genius before. Can I have your autograph?” I winced a little at that because Sherlock hates being asked for an autograph.

But he half-smiled, “What’s your name, miss?” he asked, reaching into his breast pocket for his pen and pad.

“Katie Watson.”

He started and threw me a suspicious glance, but began writing out the autograph. I peeped over his shoulder to see what he wrote:

Dear Miss Watson,  
It was my sincere pleasure to meet you today. Thank you very much for your support of my work.  
Kind regards,  
Sherlock Holmes

He tore the page carefully from his book and handed it to her. Then he said, "Can I have yours?" and held the book out to her with another suspicious glance at me. Katie Watson took the book and signed her name, as if she'd been expecting to be asked.

"Is he your boyfriend?" she asked as she handed it back, indicating me with her chin. I waved, but she took no notice.

"My husband," said Sherlock.

Katie nodded, "My mum looks at my dad like that."

Sherlock grinned, "You're clever, aren't you, Katie?"

"It isn't nice to brag."

Sherlock waved the notion away, "Oh don't mind that. That's just stupid. Don't stop noticing things, Katie. Stay clever." He offered her his hand, shook hers once, and said, "Nice meeting you. Goodbye." And he turned his attention back to cab hailing.

"Thank you. Goodbye," said Katie and returned to her mother who was looking at the menu posted to the window of Speedy's and still hadn't noticed that Katie had wandered over to us.

"Before you ask," I said when we'd gotten a cab and were settling into the back seat. "I didn't plant a little Watson out there to get you out of your strop. In fact, I didn't happen

to have been previously acquainted with that particular Watson. If you can believe it."

Sherlock laughed and shook his head, "John, whatever you say, I'll know that was your doing some way or other. It's just your sort of witchcraft."


	104. Chapter 104

"John, get me a plaster?"  
"Of course, love. Have you cut yourself?"  
"No, but I'm about to."  
"About to? What inevitably? Can't you be careful?"  
"I'll be very careful. I need to figure out coagulation rates for shallow cuts on the extremities."  
"You're not planning to cut yourself intentionally?"  
"Well, I can't use a cadaver, can I?"  
"No, Sherlock!"  
"Just a little cut, John. Just enough to draw blood."  
"There are at least half a dozen ways this could go wrong, Sherlock. You could hit a vein or a tendon, and there's the risk of infection. You know we practically live in a skip with all the experiments and specimens and other rubbish you've got around here."  
"I've sterilised my instruments, John."  
"What instruments?"  
"My scalpel. The one you gave me."  
"I did not give that to you to use on yourself! If you try, I will confiscate it. Forever. Don't test me, Sherlock. Nothing about the flat is sterile enough for you to even think about doing this. Nothing! Got it?"  
"You're speaking loud enough, aren't you?"  
"Rule six, Sherlock! No self-administered surgery!"  
"Fine, fine. Rule six. But surgery is a bit of an exaggeration in this case, wouldn't you agree? Oh all right, then. Don't look like that. I won't do it. I promise."

...

“Well, don’t you look absolutely adorable?”  
“No part of me is adorable, John. You would do well to remember that, lest something unfortunate befall you.”  
“It pains me to differ with you, but I’m afraid I must, Montresor. I’d never actually seen you in one of my jumpers before. You’ve chosen well. The stripes really suit you. You look about twenty-five. And completely sweet, despite the grumpy expression and the very rude hand gesture.”  
“If you weren’t all the way over there, I’d teach you a thing or two about sweet that you would not forget in a hurry. Er, on a different subject, what about my hello kiss?”  
“All right, but I’ll have you know your little ruse isn’t fooling me. I just fancy learning a thing or two about sweet.”

...

“What was that you were singing in the shower, John? It was nice.”  
“Ha, you heard that, did you? I thought the shower would drown it out. It was Adele.”  
“You know I like to hear you sing, John. What’s Adele? Is that a person or a song?”  
“You know Adele. She did that song for the newest Bond film. You liked it, remember? Well I suppose your exact words were ‘not intolerable,’ but that’s high praise from you.”  
“I think I deleted that.”  
“You deleted a bit of our first date?”  
“That wasn’t our first date. Our first date was the first time you kissed me. I remember every bit of that.”  
“Kissing does not constitute a date. Ha, nor does enthusiastic frottage on the sofa.”  
“Yes, it does.”  
“The next bit was even less like a date.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah, remember? We got drunk on that scotch that Mycroft sent us after Moran’s trial. And then we spent the rest of the night giggling at porn.”  
“I do remember.”  
“And then I think we fell asleep on the floor in the sitting room. Not comfortable. The next morning was not very nice.”  
“I thought it was nice. I woke up all curled round you.”  
“You’re right, actually. That was nice.”  
“See, John? It was a date.”


	105. Chapter 105

The Bouncing Detective

Slow opening automatic doors in shops used to really annoy me, but now I think I love them. That’s after watching Sherlock first bounce a trolley and then himself off the ones at the Tesco. The first time, I only laughed immoderately. The second time was barely twenty minutes later, and I laughed so hard I dropped the carrier bags. I was in tears. I had to get all new eggs, but it was worth it. That’s what happens when you swoop around at speed all the time. The universe can’t always accommodate you. So quite a nice Sunday morning. Except I’ve just remembered we forgot to get the milk. Bother.

Comments (16)

Sherlock Holmes:  
You are ridiculously easily amused.

John Watson:  
Oh, it was quite amusing. Would you like to see the photos again?

Harry Watson:  
XD PMSL!!!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Is that string of nonsense supposed to be intelligible?

Harry Watson:  
It is to normal people. Brains a bit more rattled than usual from your recent head injury?

Harry Watson:  
There are photos??? Can you post them, John?

Sherlock Holmes:  
If there ever were photos of the alleged incident, they’ve long been deleted. Look at this, John. You’ve exposed me to the censure of my peers.

John Watson:  
I’m rather in shock you’ve just admitted you’ve got peers. Maybe you have rattled your brains a bit.

Molly Hooper:  
Are we quite sure there are no photos, John?

Sherlock Holmes:  
E tu, Molly? You’re all so eager to see me lose my dignity. It’s unseemly. Fortunately, my dignity is made of sterner stuff than that.

John Watson:  
Again, would you like to revisit the photos? Because you went a really lovely bright red both times.

Sherlock Holmes:  
There are no photos!

John Watson:  
Maybe, maybe not. I do have memories to cherish, though.

Mrs Hudson:  
I agree with Sherlock. It is a bit unseemly. Pop down if you want to borrow milk for your tea, boys. I know Sherlock doesn’t drink it without.

John Watson:  
Thanks Mrs H. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Good to know I have at least one ally in this godforsaken city.


	106. Chapter 106

“Oof. You are heavier than you look.”  
“You’re sitting where I wanted to sit.”  
“The one time I got to the sofa ahead of you and you can’t even let me enjoy it.”  
“I think you’re rather enjoying being sat on, John.”  
“You think so, you big lummox? Would you enjoy it?”  
“I would, actually. We can swap, if you’d prefer.”  
“I think I’ll take you up on that, only because I’m fairly sure you don’t mean it. Up you get, love.”  
“Mmm, I told you I’d like it. You’re all warm, and I can rest my mug between your knees.”  
“Now, now. I’m not a coffee table; I’m a blanket. If you drip tea on me, you’ll have to send me out to be cleaned.”  
“I’ll be careful.”

...

“John, are you doing an experiment?”  
“An experiment?”  
“What’s this in the basin?”  
“Oh, it’s just scouring powder.”  
“Scouring powder?”  
“Yes, you sprinkle it on dirty things when you want to clean them. Haven’t you ever used it before?”  
“If I have, I deleted it.”  
“The longer I know you, the more I wonder what your life was like before we met. I still can’t picture it.”  
“Messy. It was messy.”  
“Well, clearly. No scouring powder.”

...

“Very funny, John. Take it off.”  
“What? And what?”  
“I know you’re wearing that just to irritate me. Take it off.”  
“I happen to think I look quite dashing.”  
“You look like a fool.”  
“Hurtful, very hurtful.”  
“Take it off, John.”  
“Make me.”  
“Where did you get that thing?”  
“What thing?”  
“You know.”  
“Say it. Or I won’t tell you.”  
“That fucking top hat. Where did it come from?”  
“Haberdashery.”  
“John, if I see that hat again, it will die a very inventive death.”  
“If you can get your hands on it, Montresor. I’ve gotten the best of you before.”  
“This time I’m desperate, John. I can’t look at th-John! Don’t! Now look. You’ve sullied me.”  
“It looks just as good on you as it does on me.”  
“Now it’s on, I quite like it, actually. It’s got a sort of winsome lunacy.”  
“God knows we could use some more of that."


	107. Chapter 107

My lovely love,  
My apologies for my tone and volume this morning. I let my startlement get the better of me, and it was entirely inappropriate. I decided to take a leaf from your book and apologise with a gift. Please find in this box an assortment of items available for enthusiastic destruction (including a certain hat) as well as suggested tools. For safety's sake, please do use only the tools I've included as well as the gloves and the safety glasses.

May I suggest a second entry in your list of Rules for John? Rule Two: No shouting (during arguments anyway). I'm sorry. I was a complete prat. Won't happen again.

Yours,  
John

 

John,  
Thank you for your thoughtful gift. It does balm my wounds a bit. In fact, I set fire to that hat at once, put it out, and put its remains back in the box for further enjoyment at another time. I know that was in violation of Rule Four, but I'm not at all sorry. Feel free to punish me however you see fit.

Sherlock  
PS  
John, you thrill me every day. I can put up with a bit of shouting from time to time.   
PPS  
Sorry about the holes. I've mended them.   
PPPS  
All is forgiven. Idiot.  
PPPPS  
Sorry about all the postscripts. Something about you makes me lose my respect for propriety. I'd rewrite this note, but I've left my pad in the kitchen and am now out of paper. 

...

"What's so funny?"  
"I can see you deducing, John. It's right there on your face. It really is like watching a film play across a screen; I'll never get tired of it."  
"Right then, Mr Clever. What am I deducing?"  
"You're reading my mind."  
"Guessing."  
"No, you're deducing. Tell me about your deductions, John."  
"I thought you must be thinking something snide about that man's shoes."  
"And why's that?"  
"Your eyebrows. And your top lip. You glanced at them and sneered and then you looked at me and sneered again. I’m with you, actually. They're awful. I think he must work in a shop or something, as he's got those monstrosities on with a suit. Probably spends all day on his feet. They’re those horrible things that are sort of trainers on the bottom with a shoe upper. Suit's rather nasty as well. Cheap."  
"He's got a badge round his neck. See the strap? He sells mobile phones at that shop across the road. It's got the logo on."  
"I like that the bent our powers of observation have taken is to be rude about other people's shoes."  
"So many people wear such hideous shoes, John. That's one of the things I like about you, actually. Your shoes. Number 86. Quite an old one."  
"Thanks, love. I like your shoes as well."  
"Of course you do. I've never worn an ugly pair of shoes in my life."  
"No? Not even in school? No horrid trainers for PE?"  
"Perhaps in school. I've deleted most of that."  
"Oh, is that where the solar system went?"  
"Thanks to you, John, I shall never again be able to delete the fact that the Earth goes round the Sun.”  
“Does it? I thought it went round and round the garden like a teddy bear.”

...

"Ow! Fuck bugger bugger shit fuck motherfucking ow!"  
"Are you all right, John?"  
"Get me a wet towel or something! Shit!"  
"Here you are."  
"Shit. Fuck. Ow. Thanks."  
"Better?"  
"Yeah, a bit better."  
"What happened?"  
"Do you know what happens when you grind pepper over a steaming pot?"  
"The pepper gets in your eyes."  
"Exactly. I wish I had known thirty seconds ago. How do they look?"  
"Inflamed. Does it still hurt?"  
"Yes. I'll have to put my head under the tap, I suppose."  
"Do you want me to teach the soup a lesson, John? I've a knack for revenge."  
"Ha, yes you do, love, but we're going to eat the soup. Isn't that vengeance enough?"  
"If you're satisfied with that, John, it's fine with me. But we could make it suffer first."  
“I think I’ll just eat it. But I’ll bear in mind your offer, in case it attacks me again.”  
“Do. You have only to ask, John.”


	108. Chapter 108

I need to get into the house tomorrow.  
-SH

 

That can be arranged. What for?  
-M

 

I need to retrieve some of my effects.  
-SH

 

Feeling sentimental?  
-M

 

I just want my things.  
-SH

 

I’ll be out of the country tomorrow, but the housekeeper can let you in. Help yourself.  
-M

 

Up to anything fun?  
-SH

 

Not at all. You certainly wouldn’t think so.  
-M

 

Well, try not to start any wars. Thank you for being moderately agreeable.  
-SH

 

You’re welcome. My regards to John.  
-M

 

Now you’re just trying to shock me to death, aren’t you?  
-SH

 

I’m just as capable of pleasantries as you are.  
-M

 

Indeed. Well said.  
-SH

...

"Hullo love. Where've you been hiding?"  
"Went to visit Mycroft."  
"Oh, new case?"  
"No, something personal"  
"You didn't kill him, did you?"  
"Ha, not yet."  
"What, then?"  
"Oh you know. Brother things."  
"All right, well, enjoy your secrets."  
"I do."

...

“Sherlock, where did this photograph come from?”  
“I’ll tell you in a moment, but you’ve got to promise me something first.”  
“What?”  
“Don’t rush it.”  
“Don’t rush what?”  
“Just promise.”  
“All right, I promise. Tell me about the photo.”  
“I went to Mycroft’s and got a few things I thought you might like to see. I’ve arranged them around the flat. I’m impressed you found that one so quickly. Took you less than an hour. I dusted and everything. Do you like the photo?”  
“Very much. Is that you?”  
“Yes.”  
“How old are you?”  
“About three, I think.”  
“Look at your hair! You’re a little ginger! When did it go dark?”  
“I’m not sure. I can ask Mycroft, if you like.”  
“Really? You don’t mind?”  
“Well, he’s abroad right now, but I’ll ask him when he comes back.”  
“I thought you weren’t speaking to him.”  
“Oh, we’re never speaking to each other until we are. It’s an innocent enough question. He’s my elder brother. It’s his responsibility to talk to me about my childhood, if I want him to.”

...

"That's not Mycroft?"  
"It is."  
"Oh my god!"  
"Indeed."  
"The hair!"  
"Well, it was 1993. The year of stupid hair, I've heard."  
"And the earring."  
"Yes, I'd forgotten about that. Next time you see him, ask after his tattoo."  
"I definitely will. Did you ever have an earring?"  
"...No."  
"Rule one, Sherlock."  
"I didn't. I, er, I had a ring in my nose for about two weeks in 1997, though."  
"Oh my god! Are there photos?"  
"Not that I'm aware of."  
"What happened to the nose ring?"  
"Er, some one pulled on it."  
"Oh."  
"She didn't pull it out, but near enough."  
"Well, love, if you fancy getting another one, I'm here to protect you from rogue nose ring pullers."  
"That's generous of you, John, but I don't think I'll be needing to avail myself of your services. Not those particular services, anyway."


	109. Chapter 109

“That was dramatic. Feeling better?”  
“No.”  
“I’m not going to pick those up, you know.”  
“I don’t care.”  
“So long as we’re clear. Why don’t you smash something from your box? I put the punchbowl in there this morning.”  
“Don’t want to wear the safety glasses. They pinch.”  
“Got a headache?”  
“Yes.”  
“Want to have our walk early, then? Fresh air?”  
“Don’t want to get dressed.”  
“Cup of tea?”  
“Can I smash it?”  
“Smash the punch bowl.”  
“Safety glasses.”  
“Want to go to Bart’s?”  
“Dressing gown.”  
“I could read to you.”  
“Am I a small child? Is it my bedtime?”  
“Yes. And yes.”  
“All right then.”  
“Hand me your Poe. The new one that I got you. I’m fairly sure the other one is haunted.”  
“Sit on the sofa, so I can see the pictures.”  
“Comfortable?”  
“Perfect. Thank you.”  
“All right, let’s see. What about ‘The Haunted Palace’?”  
“I know that one.”  
“Well, obviously you know it. Don’t you know them all?”  
“I mean I recite it to myself when I’m trying to stop myself shouting at someone.”  
“Ah, then you know it by heart.”  
“Yes. More than.”  
“Ha, indeed. What about ‘The Cask of Amontillado’?”  
“Thank you, Fortunato. That sounds just right.”  
“Anything for you, Montresor.”

...

Some idiot tried to ambush me. In the flat.  
-SH

 

Oh my god! Are you all right? Are you still there? I’m on my way!

 

Oh, it’s all fine, John. Just wanted to warn you. There are lots of irritating officers about. Big silly fuss.  
-SH

 

Didn’t want to alarm you.  
-SH

 

I’m fine. Perfectly fine.  
-SH

 

What happened? Who is he?

 

Fuck. I’ve just stolen a trolley full of groceries from the Tesco. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Text me everything. I’ve got to take it back, but I’ll be right there.

 

His stupidity and my ingenuity landed him in prison a few years ago, and now he seeks his horrible revenge. So dull.  
-SH

 

You’ll like this. I hit him with the punchbowl.  
-SH

 

Now he’s uglier than it was.  
-SH

 

Not really; I just wanted to make that joke. It did shatter, though.  
-SH

 

Hadn’t time for the safety glasses, I’m afraid.  
-SH

 

How did he get in?

 

He just forced the door and then closed it back again! Can you believe it? As if I wouldn’t notice! Me! He left splinters in the hall!  
-SH

 

I sent him to prison, and this is his opinion of me!  
-SH

 

And you went in anyway?

 

I wanted to see who had the cheek to make such a shit attempt on my life.  
-SH

 

It’s bloody insulting.  
-SH

 

Yeah, I’ll have to have a word with him, as you’ve already promised me I could kill you.

 

Yes, that’s what I told him. He’s already in custody, or I’d have put him in with the smashables for you, John.  
-SH

 

Anyway, I’m starved. Bring me something to eat?  
-SH

 

Of course. What do you want?

 

Doesn’t matter as long as it isn’t from the cafe. If I have to look at another one of those sandwiches, I don’t know what I’ll do. Something desperate.  
-SH

 

Actually, I’ve a better idea. After we've got rid of the officers (they’ve sent half the Met, close to; it’s utterly ridiculous), let’s go to Angelo’s and have some pasta and a bottle of that wine you liked so much after that thing with the snakes.  
-SH

 

Mycroft always plants cameras in the flat after an assassination attempt.  
-SH

 

Let’s go out and give him the chance, and then we can come back and have some fun with those cameras.  
-SH

 

Before they go in with the smashables, of course.  
-SH

 

Sounds perfect, love. See you in a bit.

 

If not sooner.  
-SH


	110. Chapter 110

Still sticky.  
-SH

 

From this morning.  
-SH

 

I told you to have a shower and change clothes.

 

I did change clothes. And I had a wash.  
-SH

 

Didn’t like to shower again so soon after the last one. My hair was still damp.  
-SH

 

I must have missed a bit.  
-SH

 

My scarf is sticking to my neck.  
-SH

 

I can feel the fibres pulling.  
-SH

 

So wash again.

 

Where do you propose I do that, John?  
-SH

 

Anywhere you like.

 

Useless.  
-SH

 

You didn’t leave the kitchen floor all sticky, did you?

 

Does milk dry sticky?  
-SH

 

YES!

 

Then I did. Thought it’d dry clean. Like water.  
-SH

 

Liar. You couldn’t be bothered.

 

Perhaps subconsciously.  
-SH

 

My mind rebels against retaining information pertaining to house work, John.  
-SH

 

It’s contrary to my nature.  
-SH

 

John, I’m sticky! I’ve got milk in my hair!  
-SH

 

You want do something about that. It’ll sour.

 

I’m not replying to anymore milk-related texts today, Sherlock.

 

Unsympathetic.  
-SH

 

You’ve been texting me about the bloody milk for an hour, Sherlock.

 

I’m trying to work.

 

Well, I’m sticky. It’s intolerable. Molly is also very unsympathetic.  
-SH

 

I suppose I’ll just go home and have a shower. I can’t concentrate when I’m sticky. Keep losing my train of thought.  
-SH

 

I’m hungry, too. The rogue milk put me off my cornflakes.  
-SH

 

So eat.

 

Bring me something?  
-SH

 

I don’t get off for another 2 hours.

 

I’ll wait.  
-SH

Very generous.

 

I don’t mind.  
-SH

 

Fine, then. What do you want?

 

Anything. Doesn’t matter.  
-SH

 

Chinese?

 

I don’t care, John. Anything.  
-SH

 

I’m tempted to believe you. Tell you what, if I bring you something and you refuse to eat any of it, I’ll tip it over your head. Fair enough? You’d look sweet all over lo mein.

 

You’ve got the most barbaric instincts, John Watson.  
-SH

 

You love my barbaric instincts, Sherlock Holmes.

 

I’m secretly impressed that you got milk in your hair by dropping a jug of it on the floor.

 

Even your accidents are spectacular.

 

Is there a word for a miracle of a disaster?

 

You’ll have to coin one. I don’t think there’s ever been a miracle of a disaster of my proportions before.  
-SH

 

No, I don’t think there has. That’ll be another world record.


	111. Chapter 111

In the Wardrobe, with the Punchbowl 

You may have heard we had a bit of excitement on Baker Street a couple of days ago. Not to put too fine a point on it, some one broke into the flat, hid in the wardrobe, and tried to ambush Sherlock and murder him. Of course Sherlock knew he was there and was barely even bothered about it. Smashed him over the head with a punchbowl (Cousin Mary, if you’re reading this, I am so sorry), then tied him to a kitchen chair and phoned the police. And then like a lunatic (fool, madman, prat, bloody idiot. Couldn’t decide which would be best here, and I think I might need them all), he explained in detail to the assailant exactly where he’d gone wrong. Yes, Sherlock’s now giving murder lessons to murderers. Nearly had a go myself when I found out about that one. But we live to fight another day. Thanks for asking.

Comments (18)

Sherlock Holmes:  
A bit of excitement is an exaggeration, John. When I realised he was in the flat, all I could think was how it was going to ruin my evening to deal with him.

John Watson:  
Your evening wasn’t completely ruined.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
True. You managed to salvage the tail end, as is your wont.

 

Molly Hooper:  
You don’t need to share quite everything you share.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I meant that we had a lovely dinner, Molly. You do let your imagination run away with you.

 

Harry Watson:  
What was this one about, then?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
He was part of a money laundering scheme I shut down a few years ago. Apparently prison didn’t agree with him.

 

Harry Watson:  
How can you be so flip about this? What if John had come in before you? He could have been killed.

 

John Watson:  
Thanks Harry, but I can wield a punchbowl just as well as Sherlock can. Maybe with less finesse, but with equal smashing.

 

Bill Murray:  
Now Harry, John can look after himself. Does a pretty good job of looking after other people, too.

 

John Watson:  
Thanks Bill, you make a good point. If I needed looking after, I wouldn’t have married some one who gives murder lessons to a murderer while they’re in the middle of trying to kill him.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
The trying to kill me bit was over. And I wasn’t giving him lessons. Only explaining to him why he wasn’t at all suited to a life of crime and had better take up ditch digging or something else more appropriate for his talents and personal history. I pointed out a very few of the things he’d got wrong. You really do exaggerate wildly, John. Poetic licence, I suppose?

 

Molly Hooper:  
It’s always good fun when Sherlock starts accusing John of exaggerating.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
To whom is that remark addressed?

 

Molly Hooper:  
To the rest of your audience.

 

John Watson:  
She’s right, too. There may be some gaps in your self awareness.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I doubt that.

 

Molly Hooper:  
You would. Because of the gaps.

...

"Is this your bear?"  
"Of course."  
"You had a bear!"  
"I did spend a bit of time as a child, John. The usual amount, I believe."  
"What was his name?"  
"Her name. It's Eloise."  
"Eloise. She looks like an Eloise. Did you dress her?"  
"I didn't really have the patience for that sort of play. She was a bedfellow, I suppose. For want of a better term."  
"Did you have others?"  
"An elephant, but I couldn't find it. Bet Mycroft's got it."  
"He coveted your elephant, did he?"  
"He wouldn't admit it. Ask him today, and he'd swear blind that plush elephants are for babies."  
"What was the elephant called?"  
"Trunkers."  
"So you've been a delight for your whole life, haven't you?"  
"You may be the first person to think so."

...

“Sherlock, I was sleeping. What are you doing?”  
“Nothing, John. Go back to sleep.”  
“Why am I being kicked in the middle of the night, Sherlock?”  
“You leaned too close, John. Accident.”  
“What the hell are you doing that’s predicating these accidents?”  
“Only one accident so far, John. You’re certainly tightly wound tonight.”  
“Sherlock it is one o’clock in the morning. What are you doing? Why does it involve all this flailing?”  
“Just fancied being upside down for a bit.”  
“Oh, of course. Upside down.”  
“I believe you were aware it’s one of my proclivities, John.”  
“Yeah, I’ve got a running catalogue of your proclivities.”  
“Are you being facetious? Because that sounds quite useful. I’ve got a running catalogue of your proclivities, you know. And subsections for the ones you aren’t yet aware of.”  
“The ones I’m not yet aware of? Like what?”  
“I think it’ll be nicer if you realise on your own. And you knew about upside down thinking, John because we did it on the stairs together.”  
“Oh, right. So we did, love. Sorry. I’m a bit fuzzy because it’s one o’clock in the morning and I’ve just been kicked.”  
“Tut tut, John. Must keep sharp. Perhaps we should have drills.”  
“Sherlock, if you start kicking me awake in the middle of the night on a regular basis-”  
“An irregular basis, John. That’d be the whole point.”


	112. Chapter 112

“Sherlock, I know you think taking an interest in telly is a moral failing, but if you don’t shut your gorgeous mouth while I’m watching Doctor Who, I will shake you until that great big brain liquefies and runs out of your ears.”  
“That was an unusually colourful threat, John.”  
“And what does your genius brain make of that?”  
“Need more data.”  
“Is that why you’re still talking?”

...

Could you stop pickpocketing me, please?

 

Got to stay sharp, John. You know most of my misdirection techniques, so you’re excellent practise.  
-SH

 

Do you have to practise by taking all my cash? Or perhaps you had an ulterior motive for that little exercise?

 

No, I put it all back in the inner pocket of your jacket. Second bit of the exercise.  
-SH

 

Oh. Thanks.

 

Well, it was your cash.  
-SH

 

Did you do that while I was wearing it?

 

Perhaps. Rather not say.  
-SH

 

Leave it to you to impress me by stealing from me.

 

That’s why I had to marry you, you know. Too susceptible to your charms. Had to neutralise you.

 

I’d do absolutely anything to charm you, John. So it’s lucky for me we married as well.  
-SH

 

I secretly love it when you show off. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll swear blind you’re a dirty liar.

 

Your secrets are safe with me, John. I’ve got all sorts of inappropriate feelings for you as well.  
-SH

...

“John, will you help me find my mobile?”  
“Nice try, Sherlock, but I know that one.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You know exactly where your mobile is. You just want me to go and get it for you, and you’ll let me wander around the flat looking for it for ten minutes instead of just asking.”  
“Your deductions are really coming along, John. Get my mobile for me. It’s on the mantel.”  
“No.”  
“John!”  
“You had your chance to ask nicely, but you plumped for trickery and look where it’s landed you.”  
“You’ll regret making me get out of my chair, John.”  
“I’ll risk it.”

...

Sherlock, you have been endowed with a great honour.

 

Oh?  
-SH

 

Yes.

 

Are you going to tell me what it is?  
-SH

 

Can’t you deduce it?

 

I don’t have much to go on.  
-SH

 

I suppose, if pressed, I’d say first loo text on your new mobile.  
-SH

 

You are a wonder. Tell me how you did that.

 

Well you just got a new mobile last night, and you’ve been in the flat since then.  
-SH

 

This is our first separation since the purchase, you’re texting me for no particular reason while at work, and it’s about an hour and a half after breakfast.  
-SH

 

Loo text. And you said ‘great honour.’ First loo text. An honour.  
-SH

 

Clearly one you’re worthy of.

 

Clearly.  
-SH


	113. Chapter 113

“Oh, I think these are yours, love. Can’t imagine how they escaped the index.”  
“No, those are yours, John. I got them for you.”  
“You bought me a pair of socks?”  
“A dozen pairs, actually. I can’t believe you’re only now noticing. You should have kept up your sock index. You wore a pair of them yesterday. The grey merinos. I do like those. Weren’t they nice?”  
“Why have you bought me socks?”  
“I just want to raise your standards a bit, John. Socks are very important.”  
“What’s wrong with the socks I’ve already got?”  
“You can’t be serious, John. You’ve got synthetic blends. As if you were poverty-stricken or wholly uneducated.”  
“Did your school offer a class in sock selection?”  
“I meant uneducated by me, John.”  
“Don’t take this as an invitation, but when have you ever taught me about socks?”  
“I lead by example, John. The aubergine silk are very like a pair I had a few years ago, for instance. Never got the mud out of those. Pity.”  
“I really don’t pay that much attention to socks, love.”  
“It’s not too late to be correct, John.”  
“All right then. Which ones shall I wear today?”  
“The brown cashmere. I was hoping you’d ask.”  
“Yes, I could tell. You were practically trembling with the desire to choose my socks.”  
“Socks are very important, John.”

...

“You’ve got a new freckle, John. A really lovely one.”  
“Ah?”  
“On your right earlobe. Looks rather like an earring.”  
“And you like that?”  
“I will confess that many years ago, I had rather a weakness for a man in an earring.”  
“Did you?”  
“Oh, yes.”  
“How intriguing.”  
“Not a weakness I allowed myself to indulge at the time.”  
“I happen to know, for reasons I won’t get into, that I look completely daft with an earring.”  
“John, don’t tantalise me like that.”  
“It’s really not a tantalising story. I let Harry pierce my ear with one of our mum’s old earrings and a pin, and overnight it puffed up to the size of my hand. I was on antibiotics for weeks, and I’m still a bit shy of the entire enterprise.”  
“Not tantalising.”  
“No.”  
“But you might look fantastic with an earring as long as your ear wasn’t horribly infected.”  
“I don’t dare experiment.”  
“Where’s your sense of scientific inquiry, John?”  
“I had been keeping it in my ear, but they had to drain it out.”  
“That was admirably disgusting.”  
“Thank you.”

...

"You're just the best thing on legs, aren't you?"  
"And off them, more often than not."  
"Ha, indeed."  
"Are you referring to anything in particular at the moment?"  
"Only how when you're striding around like that, a teaspoon in your hand looks almost like a deadly weapon."  
“I could make a deadly weapon of nearly anything, John.”  
“I know. That’s on my list. Number 68. An old one.”  
“Timeless.”  
“Indeed.”

...

“You derive an unseemly level of pleasure in making a mess and a racket, don’t you?”  
“Did I wake you?”  
“No, I’m still in bed, asleep. Can’t you tell?”  
“You and your sarcasm, John.”  
“Do you have to smash things in the middle of the night?”  
“I did try to sleep, John, but I was too bored.”  
“Sleep is meant to be relaxing.”  
“Exactly, and being bored is the opposite of relaxing. Thought I’d entertain myself a bit and try again in a few hours.”  
“So you’re going to be smashing for a few hours?”  
“I don’t have to smash. I could destroy quiet things. Shall I set fire to the top hat again?”  
“No! No night fires. No fires. Rule four!”  
“It’s quieter than breaking the clock.”  
“Maybe you could see how quietly you can smash. That might be useful on a case.”  
“I hadn’t thought of that. Hmm. How does one muffle a smash?”  
“Maybe you should think about it for a bit, sleep, then try muffled smashing in the morning.”  
“Ulterior motive, John.”  
“I’m really not trying to hide the fact that I want you to shut up, Sherlock. Don’t force me to confiscate your hammer.”  
“I have other hammers, John.”  
“Not like this one. This one’s perfect. The grip is the exact same size as your hand and the weight is just right for breaking a small object to bits against a table.”  
“I like this. This is what you do to me when you have me at your mercy, John. Unscrupulous.”


	114. Chapter 114

“Sherlock, don’t give her milk. It’ll make her ill.”  
“The bacon makes her thirsty.”  
“Bacon? You’re not eating any- Hang on. Are you feeding my bacon to the cat?”  
“Just the bits you don’t like.The fatty bits.”  
“Don’t give the cat milk or bacon, Sherlock. It’s a good job we’ve not got a human child, as you are a very indulgent parent. I’ve long since given up trying to insist that the cat not sit on the breakfast table.”  
“First John, I know the difference between allowing treats and allowing poor behavior. Secondly, I never had anything to do with the creation of any cats, and I’ll thank you not to imply otherwise.”  
“Hush, Sherlock, that’s no way to tell them. He does love you, darlings. Don’t pay him any mind.”

...

“No, John.”  
“Just let me get a bowl of cornflakes. I’m hungry.”  
“Stay where you are, John. You make a very nice pillow, and I’m just now getting to sleep.”  
“I’ll come right back, love.”  
“Come back smelling like kitchen. That’s an awake smell. I need you to smell like bed.”  
“You’re not going to let me have breakfast because it’ll make me smell like the wrong room?”  
“I haven’t slept in thirty hours, John. Just hush and let me drop off and then you can use me as a tea tray, if you like.”  
“Fair’s fair, I suppose. If I’m a pillow, you’re a tea tray.”  
“Hush. Stroke my hair.”  
“Mmm, you’re going all cling starfishy.”  
“Hush, John. Pillows don’t talk.”  
“Pillows can’t talk. I can because I am a person and not a pillow.”  
“A makeshift pillow, then. Hush.”

...

“Well this is a bit precious, don’t you think?”  
“What is, John?”  
“Breakfasting in the nude.”  
“I haven’t showered. Didn’t like to get dressed.”  
“You might have put your dressing gown on. Or at least a sheet.”  
“It’s a fine morning. I fancied enjoying the sun.”  
“It does look nice on you.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Anyway this is all for me, isn’t it? A bit of freckle cultivation?”  
“Anything to please you, John.”


	115. Chapter 115

It’s 5:17 am, and I’m sweating. The bedding is pulled up to my nose, and I’d very much like to shift it off. The window is closed, too. John must have shut it after I drifted off. Must have taken cold. I suppose he has just as much right to be cold as I have to be hot. I’m sweating. I can taste it on my upper lip. Our bedding is too heavy for the weather. This time of year is so tricky, with the transition.

John is sweating, too. His smell is rising up from him so thick, I can almost see it in the air like the shimmer of a heat haze. It’s his fault I’m hot, even aside from the window. We seem to have got stuck together in the night. One of my arms is under his shoulders, and he’s got a fistful of my hair. His other hand (the right) is just inside the back of my pants. He certainly must have taken cold, as that’s one of his methods of warming his hands (when convenient but he will settle for gloves when he must). It’s lovely (except for being too hot). I fancy his smell is soaking into my skin and my hair. I’ll be catching little notes of John all through breakfast. I love smelling him on me.

John naturally wakes between 6:15 and 7:05, barring us keeping unusually odd hours (which doesn’t happen as often as it used to). Usually he wakes with a sigh, licks his lips, looks round for me (not this morning, I think. His chin is right on top of my head and he's got a great handful of my hair)(I do love to have my hair pulled), and says ‘good morning, love’ or ‘good morning, Sherlock.’ I’m not sure what I best like him to call me. I adore that he’s given me a pet name--even my mother never really gave me a pet name-- but my name sounds so right in his mouth. Like it’s more than just two nonsense syllables pushed together. Like an invocation. Like witchcraft. Then he’ll lick his lips again (his mouth runs dry, especially in the morning, but he won’t keep a glass of water on his night table) and kiss me. And then he'll talk about breakfast.

John likes to list what we’ve got in, which annoys me when I’m in a mood, but generally I do enjoy his little regularities. Helps me keep track of the time. I usually know what day it is now. Progress. I know today we’ve got beans and bread and marmalade and tea and coffee and milk. No eggs. We might have bacon. He may say exactly those words. Must remember to check. Perhaps I’ll make the coffee. I don’t make very nice coffee (I refuse to measure coffee grounds) but John does like me to make it sometimes.

Perhaps I’ll make the toast instead. My toast is very good. People underestimate toast, but John appreciates a good slice. If we’ve got jam in, he’ll want toast. Now I remember we do have jam because when we last went to Tesco, John stood in the aisle dithering about it (‘black currant? blueberry? or raspberry? which one, Sherlock?’) until I tossed all the candidates into the trolley. And pineapple. Yes, I shall make toast. I shall make tea (my tea is much better than my coffee) and toast and John will pretend to be surprised.


	116. Chapter 116

“I have some unfortunate news for you, Sherlock.”  
“Oh? You don’t look it.”  
“Brave face. It seems your chin has been outlawed. I’m afraid it’s off to prison with you.”  
“My chin?”  
“Yes.”  
“What’s my chin done wrong?”  
“Far too attractive. It’s been decided that no man should have that kind of power in his face.”  
“And for that, prison? Seems a bit harsh.”  
“Well, that’s the state of the government for you. You should keep up with politics.”  
“Really not worth the bother. Will you come to prison with me, John?”  
“Going to have to. Apparently it’s illegal to have eyes like seawater.”  
“As well it should be. I’ve been saying so for years.”  
“Vindication at last.”  
“Always worth the wait.”

...

“Is this your tiny, little cap?”  
“Well, I don’t wear it now, but yes.”  
“You should wear it now. It’s a lovely colour.”  
“I don’t think I could get even my hair in there now.”  
“You have got loads of hair. More than any sensible person needs.”  
“You love my hair.”  
“It does make for something nice to grab onto when you want some reining in. You never did tell me when you lost your gingerness, by the way.”  
“I must ask Mycroft. I don’t think I regret losing it, mind you.”  
“No?”  
“It’s not a hair colour people take seriously. Would you still respect me if I were ginger, John?”  
“No, not at all."  
“Would you still love me?”  
“No, of course not. The only thing I like about you is your hair colour. Best hope you don’t go grey.”  
“I hope it fervently.”

...

“What’s so funny?”  
“Do you know you’ve been singing along with the overhead music since we walked in here? I thought you intended to ration your songs.”  
“Have I?”  
“Yes, and you’ve such an odd look on your face. Sort of dreamy and focused at once. You were gazing at a jug of milk like you weren’t sure if it was an old friend.”  
“It’s a favourite of mine, I suppose.”  
“What’s it called?”  
“‘Oh Darling.’”  
“Of course it is. Here’s me taking an interest in pop music. You’ll never convince me you’re not a witch, John Watson.”  
“When have I ever tried to convince you of that?”


	117. Chapter 117

“For the god’s sake, John, pick up your feet. I can’t abide shuffling.”  
“Do something for me love, and save your more ridiculous criticisms for when I’m properly awake. I’ve only been out of bed two minutes.”  
“It’s never too early to be correct, John.”  
“So you’ve told me. If you’ll make some coffee while I’m in the shower, I promise not to shuffle anymore today.”  
“Only today? That’s not a very good bargain.”  
“You could do it just because you’re fond of me. Bad bargains notwithstanding.”  
“I don’t want you to think I’m a fool who strikes poor bargains.”  
“I could never think that of you, love.”  
“All right then, we’re agreed. Shake on it.”

...

“You’ll like this, love. I had coffee with Molly down in the cafe earlier and someone thought we were a couple.”  
“Why would I like that?”  
“Don’t you think it’s funny?”  
“It’s stupid. Must’ve been a complete idiot. You and Molly have got about as much romantic chemistry as a bowl of apples.”  
“All right then, settle down. Of course it’s stupid.”  
“People are so bad at that sort of thing, and everyone thinks they’re so good at it. Remember before how everyone always assumed we were together?”  
“Did that bother you?”  
“Bloody presumptuous.”  
“Yeah, infuriating, wasn’t it? You never said anything.”  
“Well, of course not.”  
“Of course not?”  
“Didn’t you know why?”  
“No, actually. Still don’t. Want to tell me?”  
“I could never disclaim you, John. It would have hurt your feelings.”  
“That would not have hurt my feelings. And you once told me you had no friends, remember? In Dartmoor.”  
“And it hurt your feelings, didn’t it?”  
“Well, yeah because I was your friend.”  
“Right.”  
“Well, it wouldn’t have bothered me if you’d said we weren’t together when we actually weren’t together.”  
“Yes, it would’ve.”  
“What makes you think it would have bothered me?”  
“It bothered me when you did it.”  
“It bothered you?”  
“Didn’t you notice?”  
“No, I didn’t. Why did it bother you?”  
“You seemed so indignant. Like the idea offended you.”  
“It just alarmed me every time at how obvious I was. I thought I was keeping it to myself.”  
“You kept it from me. I wasn’t really convinced until you kissed me.”  
“Really? Not until then?”  
“Well, I went back and forth. I could see you were attracted to me, but I couldn't tell if it meant anything. I’m a bit stupid when it comes to you, John. Don’t you think?”  
“I’ve always thought I was so transparent to you.”  
“I thought so at first.”  
“And what made you change your mind?”  
“You make me laugh, so obviously I think you're quite clever. You see things I don’t see. Not just stupid things. Things worth seeing.”  
“Really?”  
“Obviously.”  
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Sherlock.”  
“I know.”  
“I just felt rather exposed. Bit pathetic to be so obviously interested in someone who didn’t feel the same way.”  
“It isn’t pathetic to to be excited by a strong connection. It’s all right to notice you’re attracted to someone. It’s human.”  
“Is it?”  
“Anyway, it wasn’t your fault I was stupid.”  
“You weren’t stupid.”  
“I don’t know if you’re flattering me or being modest, but stop it. I was an idiot, and we both know it. I wasn’t paying proper attention to you or to myself. I was abominably, impossibly stupid. I was Anderson stupid.”  
“Wait, now. You are referring to my husband, you know, and I won’t hear a word against him.”  
“It’s true, John.”  
“Well, we’ve got it sorted now, haven’t we?”  
“So we have. Yes.”


	118. Chapter 118

"What's that?"  
"What?"  
"That treasure chest full of rubbish."  
"Oh, the smashables."  
"Can't you answer a question in a way that actually answers the question?"  
"Well, I don't know what you're getting at, Molly. What is it you want to know?"  
"How did you come to have a treasure chest full of rubbish in your sitting room?"  
"It was a gift from John."  
"Why?"  
"It was a sort of apology."  
"Well, what's it for? What does it mean?"  
"It's just things to smash when I fancy smashing something. Obviously. Smashables."  
"Why the treasure chest?"  
"I don't know. John arranged it. I suppose he thought it looked nice."  
"Where did he find a treasure chest?"  
"Hell, Molly, I don't know! Ask John your irritating questions."  
"John's not here."  
"Well, he'll be here soon. There’s a pad under your chair. Write your questions down on it and ask John when he gets in."  
"What are you going to do while I do that?"  
"Enjoy the silence."  
"What if I write noisily?"  
"Then you'll have to leave."

...

“What’s that smirk about, Watson?”  
“Watson? That’s no way to address your beloved husband.”  
“Beloved husband? That’s a bit saccharine.”  
“The bloke you’re shagging, then.”  
“That’s a bit vulgar.”  
“Your coat cupboard companion.”  
“You do have a way with words, John. Eventually.”  
“Well, you bring it out in me, love. Eventually.”

...

I need your help with an experiment.  
-SH

 

Details forthcoming.  
-SH

 

What sort of experiment?  
~Molly~

 

-forwarded message-  
Details forthcoming.  
-SH

 

I’m not going to blindly agree to participate in one of your experiments, Sherlock.  
~Molly~

 

It won’t hurt you.  
-SH

 

That is not reassuring.  
~Molly~

 

Why not?  
-SH

 

What do you want me to do?  
~Molly~

 

Basically all I need is for you to push a button and look innocent.  
-SH

 

Will explain more the next time I see you.  
-SH

 

After you do, I’ll tell you if I can help you.  
~Molly~

 

Fine. I suppose it’s your prerogative to be difficult.  
-SH

 

That may have been the most ironic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  
~Molly~

 

You’re very lucky. I loathe irony.  
-SH 

...

“Are you plotting something, Montresor?”  
“I’m always plotting, Fortunato.”  
“Want to let me in on it? Or am I, once again, the only man who could stop you?”  
“You’re always the only man who could stop me, John.”  
“You’re very enigmatic today. Well, as you look so bloody smug, I’m sure it’s something nice.”  
“I’ll leave you to your deductions.”


	119. Chapter 119

“Sorry, I don’t think I understand.”  
“Oh, it’s very simple. Do you want me to write it down?”  
“Just say it slower this time.”  
“You and I’ll be in the sitting room when he gets in. He’ll go into the kitchen to put the kettle on-”  
“What if he doesn’t?”  
“Then I’ll ask him to get me something to eat. So he’ll go into the kitchen, and when he does, play that song I downloaded on your mobile.”  
“And then what do I do?”  
“Then just hush. And turn it off, if I tell you to.”  
“Why are you doing this, Sherlock?”’  
“I want to see what he does.”  
“Do you have a hypothesis you’re testing?”  
“It wouldn’t be an experiment, if I didn’t.”  
“Off you go, then.”  
“It’s personal.”  
“But you want to involve me?”  
“Tangentially.”  
“It sort of seems like you could do it without me.”  
“You know why I can’t.”  
“I honestly don’t.”  
“I don’t want him to attribute any significance to the song.”  
“He might do anyway.”  
“True, but there are other things I can try. Just thought I’d start here.”  
“Is there any significance?”  
“I just think he might like it.”  
“Couldn’t you, er, ask him?”  
“I need a more detailed answer than ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and he wouldn’t know how to give it.”  
“Oh. That’s a bit weird, Sherlock.”  
“I told you it was personal.”  
“He does like Adele.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“Something of hers was playing in a cafe while we were getting a coffee, and he hummed a bit.”  
“What song was it?”  
“Ooh, I don’t remember.”  
“Damn! Are you sure you can’t remember? Just think for a moment.”  
“No good. Sorry.”  
“Damn. That would have been useful.”  
“Sorry.”  
“No, no, it’s fine. Not your fault, obviously. Thank you, Molly. I appreciate your help.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Oh, clever you.”  
“My mum likes to say I’m smart as a smack on the bum.”  
“That’s very colourful.”  
“Yeah, Mum’s quite colourful.”  
“That must be where you get it from.”


	120. Chapter 120

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's One and Only, by Adele, if you're wondering.

Accommodating as ever (generous, John calls her), Molly follows me home that very evening. She takes John’s chair this time (thank god), and we sit and wait for him to come home. We are both rather conscious of not looking like we’re waiting for anything in particular. It’d be easier if we didn’t have to avoid the kitchen.

Molly suggests we play twenty questions, but I deduce her object at once (rubbish)( line of sight objects rather spoil the game. I say that every time I play and no one ever listens) and she can’t guess mine (belladonna) at all, even after I allow her an extra question. Molly gets out of her chair to dig through the smashables, and she’s using a disembodied mannequin arm to tease Skip (who has really taken to her)(Smoke still thinks she’s a terrifying abomination. Not sure why) when John comes in.

“Hello John,” Molly and I say in unison, then glower at each other.

John laughs heartily at this. “Hi Molly. Hullo love,” he says, hanging his coat on the hook and coming to my chair at once to kiss me (well done with the hello kiss window). I put my hand on his shoulder to hold him near me for an extra moment. He sighs a bit against my mouth (lovely), and he’s grinning when he straightens up. “Tea then?” He goes into the kitchen without waiting for Molly or me to answer. As soon as he’s out of the room, Molly drops the mannequin arm, pulls out her phone, and plays the song.

“What are you doing, Molly?” I think I sound creditably irritable. She scowls and shrugs at me. ‘Improvise!’ I mouth, rolling my eyes. Really, she should have expected a bit of obfuscation.

“Bit awkward to sit here with you silently staring at me,” she says. “Fancied some music.” I roll my eyes again and shake my head. ‘Raise the volume,’ I mouth, pointing up with my index finger. She complies, and I get up and go to the kitchen.

I can hear John humming as I approach the doorway, and I feel a little thrill. He’s filling the kettle and swaying a bit. I have never seen this before. I should stand quietly and watch without disturbing him, but instead I cross the room and come up just behind him. So close I can smell that hint of fir cones coming off the back of his neck.  
I check myself before I actually touch him, but he turns toward me and smiles, "You think you're so clever."

"Sorry?" shamming with John is almost always pointless, but I usually try it anyway.

John cocks an eyebrow and says softly, "If you'd gone about this like a normal person, you might have gotten a leg over by now. Definitely would have, actually. But you fancied playing mad scientist, and now you've got to sit and be polite and make small talk. And you will sit and be polite and make small talk, won't you?"

I shrug, "If you insist."

“Well, you drag your friends into your weird little experiments, and you owe them a cup of tea and some pleasant conversation, don’t you think?”

“Do I ever make pleasant conversation, John?”

“Polite conversation, then.” John smiles right into my face and licks his lips (he knows what he’s about, as well. Cruel). I make a slight adjustment to my trousers, which he pretends not to notice. “Get the mugs, will you?" he says, turning back to the worktop. I set our mugs out and find a clean one for Molly (ornate gold leaf monstrosity from the jubilee. Must be Mrs Hudson’s. Why’ve we got so few mugs?)(actually I think I remember a fungi experiment a couple of weeks ago that landed most of the mugs in with the smashables). “Thanks love. Now go be a nice host and chat to Molly. I’ll be out when the tea’s ready.”

“Well? Any luck?” asks Molly, speaking loudly over the music as I enter the sitting room.

“He knew what I was doing,” I say, settling back into my chair. “You can turn that off, now.”

Molly lowers the volume but doesn’t turn the music off. She sets her phone on the arm of my chair and reaches for the mannequin arm again. “I like this one,” she says.  
“Do you?” I reach out and click my fingers, trying to get Skip’s attention, but she’s focused on Molly and the arm. Molly has curled up all the fingers except the middle one into a fist, and she’s waving the arm at Skip, who is delighted.

“‘Course she does,” says John, coming out into the sitting room clutching three steaming mugs by the handles (he won’t use the tray, says it’s affected. Slight on me. Fond slight). “She’s got ears, hasn’t she?”


	121. Chapter 121

“So, love, how did you land on that song for your little plot?”  
“I looked at the songs you’d downloaded on your mobile and checked the play count against the lyrics. This one seemed appropriate for my purposes.”  
“Ah, very calculated. Are you sure it wasn’t just because you like it?”  
“It’s all right.”  
“Only all right? You didn’t have an emotional response to a piece of pop music?”  
“Bite your tongue, John. I thought its sentimentality would appeal to you as you’re soft-hearted and easily pleased.”  
“Lucky for you. It did remind you a bit of us, though, didn’t it? It’s all right to admit it. When you’re in love, every love song seems like it’s telling your story.”  
“Speak for yourself.”  
“Oh, you can’t fool me. By the way, in future if you have music you’d like to expose me to, you can just play it. On that apparently unused sound system I know you must have paid thousands of pounds for at some point. No, don’t tell me what it cost. I don’t want to know.”  
“I didn’t want you to feel observed.”  
“I always feel observed, love.”  
“It would have ruined the experiment.”  
“Was the experiment successful?”  
“I got data I wasn’t expecting.”  
“Really? What was that?”  
“Mustn’t say, John. Stop asking.”  
“What were you testing?”  
“Can’t say, John.”  
“If you want me to sing, you can ask, you know.”  
“I wanted you to feel spontaneously impelled. Not one of my more artfully constructed experiments.”  
“To be fair to you, it’s not easy to trick someone into thinking they’ve had a spontaneous impulse.”  
“Well. Easier than you think.”

...

“Sherlock, wake up.”  
“Go away, John. I’m sleeping.”  
“Yes, I can see that, but you’ve got all your clothes on.”  
“So?”  
“At least take off your coat and your shoes, love.”  
“I’m fine, John. Quite comfortable.”  
“It’s not hygienic.”  
“Hush.”  
“You’ve got mud on your shoes. It’s getting on the sheets.”  
“No, I wiped them on the mat when I came in.”  
“We haven’t got a mat.”  
“Haven’t we? I wiped them on something.”  
“Let me take them off for you.”  
“Go away, John. Let my shoes alone.”  
“How can you be comfortable sleeping in your coat and your shoes?”  
“I’ll be fine, if you’ll stop chattering at me and let me sleep.”  
“Right, well you get to wash the sheets later, then.”  
“Fine, take them off.”  
“No, no. The time to recant has passed. Enjoy your sleep.”  
“I won’t be able to now. You’ve ruined it.”  
“Yeah, that’s a speciality of mine.”


	122. Chapter 122

John is clever and growing cleverer. Spending time with me and working on cases has sharpened his thinking. He reads more than he used to, as well. He’s always researching something for me or looking up a point in some previous case that he was not quite clear on at the time. He argues that this combined with his internal lexicon (his hard drive) of medical texts, fiction, and classics makes him better read than I am. In order to end this conversation, I usually begin to recite from my monograph on tobacco ash. Lately John has taken to reciting along with me. I must choose another monograph.

Once we were called to a case at a beach in Sussex. A man had staggered out of the ocean up to a pair of sunbathers muttering the words, “the lion’s mane” before falling down dead in front of them. The police had cooked up some nonsense theory about a secret society by the time we got there. The briefing they gave us when we arrived was such a silly muddle. I generally try not to listen to those, if I can help it, but this one was truly a marvel of disorganised thinking.

Even I suspected foul play when I examined the body. There were these thin, curving, red weals all over the skin on the back, ribs, and shoulders. I was puzzling over it when John looked over my shoulder at the body, snorted, and told me the man had obviously been stung to death by a lion’s mane jellyfish (common in that area)(not generally fatal stings but the victim had a weak heart as evidenced by his bypass surgery scars) and weren’t the police in town a pack of dullards? He sounded exactly like me (even his accent went a tiny bit posher)(I would never say that to him, and if I did, he would deny it most hotly). I very generously gave him ninety seconds to explain to the police what had actually happened to the victim before I dragged him off to one of those little changing cubicles (not exactly a coat cupboard, but it did all right. Bit sandy). Well. I didn’t drag him. No need. He kept pace quite well.


	123. Chapter 123

“I could compose a monograph on you, John.”  
“Yes, I know. Several, I should think.”  
“I could compose an encyclopaedia on you, John.”  
“Well, I don’t know if it’d fit.”  
“Good god, John, what have you done to me?”  
“What do you mean, love?”  
“I nearly laughed at that horrible joke. Witch.”

...

“You’re getting a bit shaggy, John.”  
“Someone’s always preventing me going to the barber with his shenanigans. I’ve broken three appointments because of you. Broken appointments with my barber, Sherlock. Mortifying.”  
“My work is not a shenanigan, John.”  
“Our work.”  
“Right, yes. Our work. It’s not a shenanigan.”  
“I think it sometimes constitutes at least one shenanigan.”  
“Anyway, I was going to offer you some of my hair product.”  
“Er no, thanks.”  
“Are you sure? You’re starting to look a bit nesty.”  
“Nesty? How dare you?”  
“I certainly couldn’t deduce you were an army doctor now. Not from your haircut anyway.”  
“I think you’re worried that my hair is more beautiful than yours. Everyone loves a blonde.”  
“What rubbish, John. Of course they don’t.”  
“‘Of course they don’t’? Of course they do. Gentlemen prefer blondes.”  
“No, John, nobody trusts a blonde adult.”  
“What’s wrong with a blonde adult?”  
“Unnatural. Probably falsifying their hair colour. Vain. Devious.”  
“Vain, devious, and unnatural I may be, but I have never falsified and will never falsify my hair colour. No need, as it’s the perfect colour.”  
“Proper hair goes dark before adulthood, John.”  
“Jealousy, plain and simple. Anyway, you like my blonde hair. You wouldn’t have me any other way.”  
“I’d have you any way you can imagine, John. But yes. I do like your blonde hair. Bit long, though.”

...

“Have you made any arrangements for Molly’s birthday?”  
“A gift you mean?”  
“Obviously."  
“Nothing yet. Reckoned we could just take her for a drink or bring her flowers or something.”  
“No, John. Neither of those would be at all appropriate.”  
“She’s going to be stunned you remembered. Don’t want to over excite her with too much thoughtfulness in one day.”  
“Oh, don’t be stupid, John. Why should she be stunned we remembered? She’s our dearest friend, and she’s mentioned it half a dozen times in the last month.”  
“Fair enough. If flowers and pubs are not appropriate, what then?”  
“I’ll think of something.”  
“You will?”  
“She’s our dearest friend, John.”  
“I know, but you hate birthdays and sentiment and, er, everything about presents.”  
“We both know that to be an exaggeration, John.”  
“No, we don’t.”  
“Well, it is.”

...

“So, love, what did you land on for Molly’s birthday?”  
“Coffee maker. For her office.”  
“That’s rather perfect, actually.”  
“Of course it is. And some nice coffee. Got sick of drinking that swill from the commissary.”  
“You really have a knack for seeming practical while you’re actually being sentimental. Must come of having the brightest mind in Britain.”  
“In Europe, at least. Excluding Mycroft, of course, because of his laziness. And I’m not sentimental.”  
“She told me about the dozen cups of apology coffee.”  
“Hmph. You said something about getting her a cake.”  
“Oh, yeah. I’ve got it here.”  
“What is this? Why’s it so small? Why’s it all pink? What’s this little heart doing on?”  
“It’s a cake. It’s small because that’s the size it is. It’s pink because it’s got strawberry icing on, and the little heart is decorative.”  
“I don’t like it.”  
“You don’t know if you like a cake by looking at it. You can’t taste with your eyes. Anyway, it isn’t for you. She likes pink and little hearts.”  
“And strawberry?”  
“I’m not sure about strawberry.”  
“What about the cake bit? What flavour is that?”  
“Chocolate?”  
“Did you buy this cake just for the little heart?”  
“Yeah, I suppose I did.”  
“Tut tut, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm celebrating my birthday this weekend (my own John is taking me out of town)(holiday with a madman!), so I likely won't post again until Sunday or Monday. Haven't forgotten you, darlings. Back soon. <3


	124. Chapter 124

Thanks for the pressies!  
~Molly~

 

He already gave them to you?

 

Did he not mention he was going to?  
~Molly~

 

No, he didn’t. The prat.

 

How did you like the cake?

 

It was really good! We would have saved you a bit, only it was so small.  
~Molly~

 

He ate the cake, too? He went on about how he didn’t like it because it was so pink and small and the little heart. Massive prat.

 

He did tell me he hoped I liked strawberry with that irritating eyebrow look. You know the one I mean.  
~Molly~

 

Yeah, I do, actually. Do you like strawberry?

 

I do! Especially with chocolate.  
~Molly~

 

Sorry again we left you out, John. I didn’t know you didn’t know.  
~Molly~

 

Oh, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. You and I can meet up for a drink later, yeah? Maybe tonight?

 

Got a date, actually. Sorry.  
~Molly~

 

Oh, no, it’s fine. Have a lovely time. I’ll see you later.

 

Happy birthday, Molly!

 

Thanks, John!  
~Molly~

...

“I think I fancy David Tennant.”  
“Who is David Tennant? Is he with the Met?”  
“Ha, no, he’s the Tenth Doctor on Doct-”  
“John, no. I do not want to discuss Doctor Who.”  
“Well, you asked-”  
“You manipulated me into asking. I am not going to discuss Doctor Who. It’s too ridiculous.”  
“It’s science fiction.”  
“Pointless.”  
“Someone’s jealous.”  
“Preposterous.”  
“You like him a bit. You like his hair.”  
“I don’t know what he looks like.”  
“Yeah, you do.”


	125. Chapter 125

“What’s funny, John?”  
“I just love the look on your face after you rattle off one of your deductions like that.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah, you go all smug and breathless and a bit pink. You even bite your lips. Positively post-coital.”  
“Post-coital, eh?”  
“Yeah, it’s gorgeous. You’ve done it the whole time I’ve known you. That time you deduced me in the cab when we were on our way to our very first crime scene, I thought you were about to kiss me.”  
“Ah, what a world that would have been.”  
“You should have done.”  
“Oh, were you up for it already?”  
“It was an opportune moment.”  
“Now I know you a bit better, I see you’re a montage of opportune moments, John.”  
“Well, with you, love.”

...

“John, what is the meaning of this?”  
“The meaning of what, love?”  
“Your eyes have been brown all day. I’ve never seen you do that before. What does it mean?”  
“Firstly, I think you know that I don’t consciously change my eye colour. Second, I haven’t got brown eyes, so I suppose the meaning is that you’ve finally gone completely crackers. Don’t worry; I think you’ll be very comfortable there.”  
“Come now, John, have a look at your reflection. Your eyes are brown.”  
“They’re grey, you loon. Grey or blue or sort of greenish.”  
“John, I spend much more time looking at your eyes than you do. At the moment they're brown.”  
“They're grey!”  
“This is distressing. I’ve got a mad, colour-blind witch living in my flat.”  
“I was about to say the same thing.”  
“You’ll want a pressing to sort you out.”  
“Mmm yes, please.”

...

“Will you hurry up with the toothbrush please?”  
“What do you care what I do with my toothbrush?”  
“I want to clean my teeth. Obviously.”  
“Obviously?”  
“It’s customary to clean one’s teeth before bed, John. Good hygiene.”  
“Why don’t you use your own toothbrush?”  
“I binned my toothbrush two months ago. Didn’t you notice?”  
“Why on earth did you bin your toothbrush?”  
“Well I noticed you’re ill far less frequently than I am. I thought it might be beneficial for me if I picked up your oral flora, so I started using your toothbrush. It worked, so I decided to continue indefinitely. And I binned my toothbrush. No need for it.”  
“Didn’t think you’d ask me first?”  
“What difference does it make to you?”  
“What exactly do I get full autonomy over?”  
“Hmmm.”  
“Well?”  
“I’m thinking.”

...

“I think I’ve decided which of your freckles is my favorite, love.”  
“The one on my throat. Obviously. You pay enough attention to it.”  
“That’s a very, very close second. I love that one.”  
“I know."  
“My favorite, though, is one I’ve just noticed.”  
“And it’s already planted itself in your heart. Touching.”  
“Well, it’s a special one. It’s in your right pupil. A sort of bright brown dot.”  
“Poetry, John.”  
“You enjoy it.”

...

“You’ve been looking at me oddly all day, John. Why is that?”  
“I had that dream again.”  
“Which one?”  
“The one where I’m your violin.”  
“Oh, I like that one. What was it like this time?”  
“Bit of a muddle.”  
“Not good?”  
“I don’t like dreaming of being inanimate. Though it was nice to be held like that. It was, er, reverent, I suppose. I liked being the object of such devoted attention.”  
“You’re not jealous of Celeste, are you?”  
“Right, I’m not going to talk about this with you, if you’re going to call it by name. And a girl’s name. Why’s your violin got a girl’s name?”  
“So you are jealous, then. Don’t be ridiculous, John. It’s a completely different kind of relationship.”  
“Please don’t talk about your violin that way, Sherlock.”  
“Would you like me to try holding you reverently, John?”  
“Oh, all right then. Give it a go.”  
“Come a bit closer, then. How’s this? Comfortable? Feeling revered?”  
“Mmm, lovely. Thanks.”  
“My pleasure, John. Though you still look a bit odd.”  
“Right. Sorry. I was just thinking of the end of the dream.”  
“The end of the dream? Do I want to know about that?”  
“Even if you do, I really don’t want to tell it.”


	126. Chapter 126

I’ve done something. You’ll be cross.  
-SH

 

Oh god. What’ve you done?

 

I’m locked out of the flat. I need you to come let me in. Mrs Hudson is out.  
-SH

 

I wouldn’t ask, but I’m in my dressing gown. No cash, no lockpick, no wallet, no keys.  
-SH

 

Well I can’t leave now, love. I’ve got a consultation in 3 mins. 

 

Wait in the cafe. I’ll try and get away at lunch.

 

I tried the cafe, but it was strongly suggested that I leave. They’ve a dress code I wasn’t previously aware of, apparently.  
-SH

 

Getting a bit chilly.  
-SH

 

Sorry love, I’d leave if I could.

 

I’ll sort it, I suppose.  
-SH

 

Just know that if I’m photographed wandering around London in my dressing gown, people will blame you.  
-SH

 

People have been blaming me for you for years now. I’m used to it. Text me again if you get desperate and I’ll see what I can do.

 

I love that of all the ridiculous things you’ve tried to get me home for, this is the one you’re reasonable about.

 

Well, this could be interesting. I’ll text you again if I get bored.  
-SH

 

No, that was not on offer. Desperate, I said.

 

Same thing.  
-SH

...

Locked out of my flat. Mind if I hang round Bart’s til John can come let me in?  
-SH

 

Sure, bit slow today. Touch wood.  
~Molly~

 

I will not be touching wood.  
-SH

Er, all right. Please yourself. See you in a bit?  
~Molly~

 

Yes, thank you.  
-SH

 

Bit of a catch, though. Hope you don’t mind.  
-SH

 

What sort of catch?  
~Molly~

 

I’m in my dressing gown. Nothing under.  
-SH

 

Why?  
~Molly~

 

Got locked out. Didn’t I say?  
-SH

 

What were you doing outside in your dressing gown?  
~Molly~

 

I went out the window.  
-SH

 

Why?  
~Molly~

 

Does it matter? Can I come or not? I’m getting cold.  
-SH

 

I know it’s an imposition, but I assure you I have explored all other options.  
-SH

 

Just realised I’ve got no cab fare. Can I borrow a few quid to get there?  
-SH

 

Will pay you back, obviously.  
-SH

 

Fine. Come. I can give you some money. See you in a bit.  
~Molly~

 

You may have to hide, though. I don’t think my boss would like it if she found out I had a naked man in my office.  
~Molly~

 

On the slab again? Didn’t much care for it last time.  
-SH

No, not on the slab! Somewhere. I’ll find you a good place.  
~Molly~

 

Doubtful. But thank you for your help.  
-SH

 

One more thing?  
-SH

 

Are you coming to immediately set fire to me?  
~Molly~

 

Clearly not. None of the cabs will stop for me. Could you order me one and warn them about my attire?  
-SH

 

Near enough, then. Your cab is on the way. See you soon.  
~Molly~

 

In the cab now. He’s giving me a dreadful time. You won’t tip him, will you?  
-SH

 

Let’s use this time to talk about how I can make this up to you. May as well get the awkward bit out of the way ahead of time.  
-SH

 

How did you land on this as the awkward bit?  
~Molly~

 

So transactional. Not looking forward to negotiating the terms, but may as well sort it now.  
-SH

 

I didn’t think you’d be a laugh when I met you, but you really are.  
~Molly~

 

I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.  
-SH

 

Might want to come down. Will be there in two mins.  
-SH

 

This is not even the maddest thing I've ever done for you.  
~Molly~

 

Hmm, I'd say this is more inconvenient than mad.  
-SH 

 

You'll want to recalibrate that gauge.  
~Molly~

 

...

How’s the nudity coming along?

 

Fine, thanks. At Bart’s. Molly’s been very helpful.  
-SH

 

You went to Bart’s in your dressing gown?

 

Had to, didn’t I?  
-SH

 

Fortunately, I have unimpeachable personal dignity or this might have been a bit embarrassing.  
-SH

 

Yeah, you might be the first completely shameless person in the world.

 

Not necessarily a compliment, by the way.

 

Shame is an impediment to greatness, John.  
-SH

 

Though I am slightly ashamed of what I did to the kettle.  
-SH

 

Sherlock! Rule five!

 

Oh, no, not the unsecret kettle. The last one. Not the thing with the fingernails and toenails, but the thing after that.  
-SH

 

Did I ever apologise for that?  
-SH

 

No! And you should be ashamed of that. Bloody shocking.

 

Slightly ashamed, mind you.  
-SH

 

I’m hiding in a supply cupboard right now. Supply cupboards make me think fondly of you, John.  
-SH

 

You best suppress those kinds of fond thoughts, love. Now is not the moment.

 

I take my moments where I find them, John.  
-SH

 

I believe you have some familiarity with the concept.  
-SH

 

You are too ridiculous.

 

Quite the contrary, John. My levels are ideal.  
-SH


	127. Chapter 127

“Let’s not allow this trouser absence to become a pattern, mmm?”  
“Don’t patronise, John.”  
“Now that’s rich from a man who literally forgot his trousers when he left the flat this morning.”  
“I didn’t forget them, and you know it. I expected to get back in the way I went out. Didn’t think I’d be out of doors more than a moment.”  
“And why didn’t you?”  
“Window shut behind me.”  
“Not an outcome that great brain of yours could have predicted?”  
“I had a book to hold it open actually, but I knocked it out behind me. Could have happened to anyone.”  
“Somehow these things just seem to choose you.”  
“I’ve been told I’m a miracle of a disaster. Fondly, I think.”  
“Very fondly, love.”

...

I’ve decided how you’re going to make it up to me.  
~Molly~

 

Have you?  
-SH

 

You’re taking John and me out to a pub, and you’re going to buy us drinks until we’re both completely pissed.  
~Molly~

 

And if you moan about it AT ALL, I’ll turn up to a crime scene in my dressing gown with the pink cats on and fluffy mules.  
~Molly~

 

Disproportionate.  
-SH

 

You’re not moaning, are you?  
~Molly~

 

Wouldn’t dream of it.  
-SH

 

This’ll be fun! I’ve always wanted to get drunk with John.  
~Molly~

 

Bet he gets really silly, doesn’t he?  
~Molly~

 

Yes, actually, though don’t tell him I said so. He thinks he can hold his liquor because he can walk in a straight line and speak mostly without slurring.  
-SH

 

Hurrah! We’re going to gang up on you!  
~Molly~

 

I’d expect no less.  
-SH


	128. Chapter 128

They’re late and I’m early, which is typical. I don’t want to sit at a table, craning around looking sad while I wait for them, so I pop to the loo to check I look undeduceable. I’m never undeduceable, but I haven’t changed out of my work clothes nor put on any lipstick or anything else that Sherlock will loudly and suddenly announce to the room while pretending he doesn’t quite understand what he’s saying. At least I hope so. My hair’s gone a bit mad from the wind, so I run my fingers through it to smooth it out, then put it in a loose plait.

When I come back from the loo, John is stepping up to the bar, trying to catch eyes with the barman. Sherlock is sitting a little ways away at a table, looking sulky and awkward. Now I know him better, I can sort of tell when he feels awkward. Then I know to be on alert for one of his patented hideous remarks. He’s drumming his fingers on the table, the way he does when he wants to reach for his mobile. I walk up behind John and squeeze his shoulder. He startles. I’d got the left one. I’m not supposed to touch that one, Sherlock has implied. I’d forgotten. John turns and smiles at me anyway.

“Hi Molly,” he says, squeezing my right shoulder. “Been too long. Nearly five hours How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, “Good. Did some travelling. Talked to some people who wear trousers.” John laughs. Good start. Sometimes when Sherlock is around, John is so absorbed in him that he misses half of what I’m saying and all of my jokes. Sherlock is actually a bit better about that. I reckon John and I are easier to follow than he is. Takes less of his attention to stay on top of both of us. Both conversations, I mean. “You’re not to buy me any drinks tonight. You’re not to buy any drinks at all tonight, John. Sherlock’s making it up to us for being ridiculous.”

“He’d have to buy the whole pub to do that, wouldn’t he?” John says, catching eyes with Sherlock and smiling fondly. They both go sort of soppy for a moment. I’m not sure they realise they do that.

“He would do, if you asked him to,” I say. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Can he read lips?” I ask.

“Probably.” John walks over to Sherlock’s table, and I follow.

“Yes, I can read lips, and yes I can hear you two talking about me. It isn’t all that loud in here, and I pay attention,” Sherlock says by way of greeting when we reach him. I squeeze his shoulder, too. For symmetry’s sake. “I wouldn’t buy you a pub, John, because you’d be dragging me there constantly,” he continues, squeezing my shoulder. A bit hard. He’s got such strong fingers.

“Well, you’re always doing things worth discussing, love.” John settles into his seat and kisses Sherlock on the cheek as if they hadn’t just come in together two minutes ago.

“So why did you go out the window naked, Sherlock?” I ask.

“I was just testing something,” he says, shrugging. I doubt it’s a particularly interesting story, but it’s a bit annoying when he refuses to tell me something just because he can. He does that to everyone, though. Even John.

“What did you learn?” I ask. “Was it about why I’ve not yet got a drink in my hand?” John laughs, and Sherlock rolls his eyes but slides obediently out of his chair and approaches the bar.

“I think this no trousers thing agrees with him,” John says, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. “He’s been in a really good mood all day. Can’t say it bodes well for his future propriety.”

“Well, it was only a matter of time. Anyway, he likes to do things he hasn’t done before.”

“Ha, yeah, so he does.”

“Not indiscriminately,” Sherlock says, clunking our round down on the table and seating himself.

“Are you planning to make a habit out of going round without your trousers, Sherlock? You seem to have really enjoyed it today,” I say, reaching for my drink and taking a sip.

“Two incidents does not a habit make,” he answers, taking a dainty sip from his drink and dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“Two incidents? What was the other?” I ask.

“Buckingham Palace,” Sherlock says, waving his free hand. “You may tell it if you like, John.”

“Oh, no, I remember now,” I say. “It was on your blog, John. I disagree that it doesn’t mean a habit, though. John, when was the last time you were out of doors in your dressing gown?”

John puts down his drink, and strokes his chin theatrically, “Not in recent memory,” he says in a fair impression of Sherlock.

I laugh and clear my throat, “Pointless,” I say with a wave.

Sherlock pouts, “It’s not as easy to be me as it looks, is it Molly Hooper? If you’re going to act like a pair of babies, I’m not sure I should be giving you alcohol.”

“Oh, have some yourself and lighten up,” John says, nudging Sherlock’s drink closer to him.

Sherlock obliges, then says, “You should both of you spare the world your impressions of me. Not one of your gifts.”

“Have I got gifts?” I say. “I didn’t know you thought so.”

“You’re gifted at asking personal questions.”

“You’re gifted at being unnecessarily mysterious while pretending you don’t like people talking about you.”

“You’re gifted at patience,” puts in John. “And flexibility.”

“Yeah, I am gifted at flexibility. The two of you would know better than anyone, wouldn’t you?” John looks away and snorts. I grin.

“Bit early in the evening for the giggles,” Sherlock says.

“Never too early to be correct,” John says and takes a long draught of his drink.

“I’ll drink to that!” I say. “Do you think if we got enough drinks in him, he’d do impressions of us?”

“He’s done impressions of me, but they are very unflattering,” John says. “I know I’m not as high-pitched as he makes me out to be.”

“You get more high-pitched the thicker you’re being.”

“I think that may be in your mind, love.”

They tend to go on like this once they get started, so I interrupt, “How are you enjoying being sociable, Sherlock?”

“It’s much as I remember it. People with glasses hovering at their chins sniggering at me while I feign tolerance.”

John’s face falls, but I say, “Here, now. If you’re bothered with us teasing you, you can just say so. No need to be mean about it.”

Sherlock looks rather surprised, “Aren’t I returning in kind? I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Bit different in tone, love,” John says quietly.

“Keep practising,” I say. “It helps if you don’t imply we’re making you really unhappy.”

Sherlock takes his notepad out and scribbles on it, then puts it back in his pocket. “Thank you, Molly Hooper,” he says in an odd, mechanical tone. “With your assistance, I will soon be able to integrate seamlessly whenever required.” Then he blinks rapidly several times and takes another pull on his drink. I laugh so hard I knock my glass over.


	129. Chapter 129

“God, you’re amazing. You were just ablaze tonight.”  
“How you do go on, John.”  
“I hadn’t seen you like that for a while. You were like you were with-”  
“Moriarty?”  
“Yeah! Hope you don’t mind me saying.”  
“Not at all. I was mostly showing off for you. I might just do anything to put that look on your face, John.”  
“Ooh, you’re starting to sound a bit mad, Montresor.”  
“I think you like me best when I’m mad.”  
“I can’t work out when I like you best. I’m not as clever as you are. I do have a new favorite freckle, though.”  
“That was quick.”  
“You’ve got a really nice one on your jaw. Near your left ear. But don’t worry, love, my inconstancy only extends to your freckles. Every other bit of you has got my undying loyalty.”  
“You are giddy tonight.”  
“It’s your doing. Witch.”

...

“Thank you for your assistance with this matter, Sherlock. Very neatly done.”  
“Well, if you’ll be interesting, I’ll be useful.”  
“Mmm, indeed. Generous of you.”  
“I do enjoy the opportunity to be impressive.”  
“To show off, yes.”  
“Call it what you like; it works to your advantage.”  
"Well. Frequently enough.”

...

“That was on the floor!”  
“Only for a moment.”  
“I told you I’d make you another slice.”  
“This one was perfect. And it was the last of the marmalade.”  
“Don’t eat off the floor for the sake of a perfect slice of toast and a mouthful of marmalade.”  
“Oh don’t fuss, John. A little extra exposure to bacteria now and again strengthens the immune system.”  
“Tell you what. You stop jumping into skips, and you can eat your breakfast off the floor.”  
“Not much of a compromise. Anyway, I haven’t jumped into a skip in ages. I don’t do it for fun, I do it because it’s necessary.”  
“Your idea of necessary is so expansive.”  
“My idea of necessary is extremely narrow and precise. But situational, of course.”  
“And it includes eating toast off the floor.”  
“Well, it was the last of the marmalade, John.”


	130. Chapter 130

“All right, love? You look a bit peaky.”  
“Fine.”  
“You sure?”  
“You’re the one with the head injury.”  
“Yeah. Worse things have happened to me. You look like you’re going to be sick.”  
“You’ve got blood in your hair.”  
“Just a bit.”  
“I don’t like it.”  
“Yeah, it itches. A&E doesn’t tidy you up so well.”  
“It’s not funny, John.”  
“No, not particularly.”  
“Don’t make jokes about it, or I’ll make you wear a helmet on all our cases.”  
“Come on, Sherlock. I’m just as sturdy as you are. And we got him, didn’t we? An arrest? Believe they call that a result. And I’ll have a nice little scar near my eyebrow. Something new for your notes.”  
“You’ve got enough scars. Let’s focus on keeping your brains inside your head. You can’t spare any.”  
“I didn’t lose any brains. They’re still inside my, er. Hmm. What’s that thing called? You like to hang ridiculous hats off yours.”  
“John...”  
“Come on, love. We were great tonight. We were on form. We won. I’ve got a little bump on the head and three stitches, and you’re going to have the fun of fussing over me this weekend. It’s fun, yeah?”  
“A bit.”  
“Well, then.”  
“Be more careful, John.”  
“I will, if you are.”  
“Hmph.”  
“The only thing is that all this hospital rubbish has denied us our usual denouement.”  
“That’s your answer to everything.”  
“That’s the answer to everything.”  
“Except concussions. No coat cupboards for you, John Watson.”  
“Well, there’s gratitude for you.”

...

“John! Wake up. I’ve got to monitor your breathing. You’ve got to stay awake. I’ll open the window.”  
“Must be a bit of a thrill for you to be able to actually admit you’re monitoring my bodily functions.”  
“John, stop it! This is not a joke, this is not a thrill, this is not an experiment! I thought you were dead!”  
“You did?”  
“Yes!”  
“But I popped right back up again.”  
“I couldn't get to you. And it took you thirty-seven seconds. Long enough for despair.”  
“Oh god. I’m sorry, love.”  
“And now all I can think of is what I did to you. Before. My magic trick. How you spent six months with that feeling.”  
“Sherlock, let’s not, okay? Not right now.”  
“Why did you forgive me, John? You shouldn’t have done.”  
“Don’t be daft.”  
“Really, John. Why did you forgive me?”  
“Because I love you. Idiot.”

...

“I’m glad you convinced me to do this, John.”  
“Not too different from camping out on the sofa all weekend, is it?”  
“Except that in here, there’s plenty of room for us both to lie down.”  
“And yet somehow you always wind up with about two-thirds of the bed.”  
“Scurrilous.”  
“If that were false, which it’s not, it’d be one of the nicest things you’ve ever been accused of. Taking up too much of the bed.”  
“True. If it were one of my misdeeds, which it isn’t, it’d be among the nicest.”  
“Among the nicest? What are the other nice things?”  
“They’re mostly to do with coat cupboards.”


	131. Chapter 131

“Here you are, dearie. Milk and tea and biscuits.”  
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I don’t like to ask, but I didn’t want to leave him to go to the shop, and we’re completely out of tea. He’s quite convinced he needs tea to survive.”  
“So do we all, don’t we? How’s his poor, old head?”  
“Improving, thank you. He needs to rest, really, and he’ll be all right. Still, I. I don’t like to leave him.”  
“Of course you don’t, Sherlock, and you’re doing a beautiful job looking after him.”  
“You think so?”  
“Yes, dear a beautiful job. I’m proud of you, if you don’t mind me saying.”  
“I don’t mind. Thank you.”  
“I’m so glad you two’ve got it sorted, if you don’t mind me saying.”  
“Not at all.”  
“The minute I clapped eyes on that sweet face, I knew he’d be just right for you.”  
“So he is.”  
“You’re just right for him, too. You’re just what he needs.”  
“Am I?”  
“You really are, dearie. I never saw such a match.”  
“Thank you. I’m flattered you think so. He’s quite a remarkable man.”  
“So he is, dear, and he’d say the same of you. Quite right, too.”  
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”  
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your John. Just pop down if you need anything.”  
“I will, thank you.”  
“Give him a kiss from me.”

...

“Ow! What was that for?”  
“It was from Mrs Hudson.”  
“She doesn’t pinch!”  
“She would if she dared.”  
“Well, she wouldn’t do it so hard.”  
“Was that hard?”  
“Yes, your fingers are like vices. Why is she sending me pinches anyway?”  
“Well, it was meant to be a kiss, but I didn’t want you to misinterpret it. As it was from Mrs Hudson.”  
“Oh. That’s no excuse, really. You’ll leave finger marks on my face.”  
“You leave finger marks on my shoulders.”  
“Under completely different circumstances.”  
“They’re still finger marks.”  
“Sometimes you need steadying. Anyway you like me leaving finger marks on you.”  
“I can’t accept a kiss on your behalf and not forward it to you, John. I’m not a monster.”  
“You didn’t kiss me, you pinched me!”  
“Yes, and I’ve explained why, haven’t I?”  
“More of an excuse than an explanation.”  
“Call it what you like.”

...

“You’re pinchable as well, you know.”  
“Bite your tongue, John Watson.”  
“I’ve been cataloging your pinchiest bits. Would you like to hear my list?”  
“Not at all.”  
“I’ll just enact it then. In order.”  
“Don’t you dare.”  
“Oh, I do dare. You want to have a guess where I’ll start?”  
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”  
“Luckily, I’ve got unimpeachable personal dignity.”

...

Hullo.

 

Aren’t you going to answer?

 

Why are you texting me from the bedroom? I thought you were asleep.  
-SH

 

Do you need something?  
-SH

 

No, I just want your attention, and I’m too proud to admit it and too lazy to get up.

 

That sounds like someone else I know.  
-SH

 

Does it?

 

A bit.  
-SH

 

He must be very charming for you to put up with him.

 

Some find him charming. Some have called him difficult.  
-SH

 

Oh difficult. That’s what idiots say about the clear-minded, isn’t it?

 

Come back to bed.

 

All right. Shall I bring anything with me?  
-SH

 

No.

 

The less you’ve got with you, the better. I’m going to use you for a pillow, and you’ll need to be absolutely still and silent.

 

Why does it amuse you so much to pretend to be me?  
-SH

 

We all need a taste of our own medicine from time to time, don’t we?

 

Would you like a taste of yours?  
-SH

 

Yes. Come back to bed. Don’t answer, Mr Last Word. Just come.


	132. Chapter 132

"Are you bored with me playing? Do you want me to stop?"  
"No, not at all bored, love. Play on, if you like, but feel free to take a rest if you want a rest."  
"What are you writing?"  
"Ha, oh nothing. Just doodling, actually."  
"I'll have a look."  
"All right then, Mr Grabby! Don't rip it."  
"Sorry. This is me, isn't it?"  
"Ha, yes, it is. How can you tell?"  
"I deduced it. Why am I a dragon?"  
"It just popped into my head suddenly that Sherlock is a perfect name for a dragon."  
"Is it?"  
"Sherlock, the Magnificent."  
"Sherlock, the Terror."  
"Sherlock, the Musical."  
"Sherlock, the Savage."  
"Sherlock, the Marvel."  
"You're easily-impressed."  
"You're impressive."  
"You like me too much, John."  
"Nah, love. I don't."

...

That's Quite Enough, Thank You

Sherlock Holmes here. Thank you (at John's insistence) for your concern, but John is doing very well. He's had his stitches out, and his head is just fine. In fact, he asked me to tell you all that being pistol whipped is quite refreshing, and he advises you to try it when next you're feeling out of sorts. So you can all stop phoning, texting, emailing, and otherwise hounding me for information on his condition. Your incessant chirps and beeps are disturbing him while he attempts to convalesce. John is fine. Probably better than most of you.

 

Comments (30)

John Watson:  
That is NOT what I asked you to say.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You’re meant to be resting. If you're only going to go commenting anyway, what was the point of me posting this for you? Don't make me confiscate your laptop, John Watson.

 

John Watson:  
I'd like to see you try. We both know I'm a much more effective confiscator than you are.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Only because I don't go rifling through your possessions for contraband when you're out of the flat.

 

John Watson:  
Yeah, you do. You thought I didn't know about that?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Prove it.

 

John Watson:  
Oh proof. Proof is boring.

 

Molly Hooper:  
You two are so enchanted with yourselves, aren't you?

 

John Watson:  
Obviously.

 

Bill Murray:  
That's our John Watson! Tough nut to crack!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Further puns will result in the disabling of the comments section.

 

John Watson:  
Don't mind him. I enjoy a pun from time to time.

 

Harry Watson:  
Do you suppose you could go six months without either of you having a near-death experience?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
No.

 

John Watson:  
It wasn't a near-death experience.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Near enough near-death.

 

John Watson:  
Hardly. Not that I fancy getting much closer, mind you.

 

Harry Watson:  
John, answer your bloody phone!

 

John Watson:  
I lost it. Well, it’s somewhere in the flat, but I don’t know where.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You left it in the kitchen.

 

John Watson:  
Oh, right. I remember now. Can I borrow yours?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
If you can catch it. I’m not getting up.

 

John Watson:  
That was a really horrible throw. Now we’re lost to the world.

 

Mrs Hudson:  
I’m about to do the shopping. Do you boys need anything?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Could you get my phone? It went behind the sofa.

 

John Watson:  
You probably broke it, actually. It hit the wall really hard first. Don’t know how you expected me to catch that.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
At least now the beeping will stop.

 

John Watson:  
Right, we’ve been in the flat for too long. Prepare yourself, Sherlock. We are venturing out!

 

Molly Hooper:  
I thought you were resting.

 

John Watson:  
I’m taking it easy, but I’m really not as fragile as all that. He just wanted an excuse to threaten our friends. Talk to you later, Molly. Got some chivvying to do.


	133. Chapter 133

"My scar's coming along nicely, isn't it? Don't you think it makes me look hard?"  
"It's less a scar than a horrid gash. It makes you look like I haven't been looking after you properly."  
"If that were true--and it isn't-- it would be an advantage, wouldn't it? Because you're always looking after me. Even when I've expressly asked you not to. Like this morning when I was in the loo, and you would not bugger off as requested."  
"John, why do you keep making jokes?"  
"You haven't been smiling nearly enough for my liking, lately. All right, not like that. That's ghoulish."  
"I feel ghoulish."  
"Love, this is what we do. Sometimes nasty things will happen to one or both of us. But even if we ran a sweet shop, nasty things would sometimes happen to one or both of us. Murder-suicide, though. Remember?"  
"True."  
"Feel better?"  
"A bit."  
"Shall I bring you another finger?"  
"You don't have to bring me a finger."  
"No, no. It's my pleasure. Consider it done."  
"Thank you, John."  
"Anyfinger for you, love."  
"Right, John, if you continue with that ridiculous accent or that horrible punning, I shall have the locks changed while you're out."  
“Lucky for me, I’ve got your lock pick.”  
“Not my best one.”  
“I think I can still get in with your second best one.”  
“Takes you ages, though.”  
“Well the longer I take with it, the more likely it is you’d get annoyed and just let me in.”  
“Yes, that seems quite likely, actually.”  
“See, you’ll never be shot of me.”  
“So it would seem.”

...

“Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but this one reminded me a bit of you. The ears in jars.”  
“I do like ears. I don’t collect them, though.”  
“Ears are as unique as fingerprints, you know.”  
“Yes, I do know.”  
“You can have my ears when I’ve finished with them.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“I know you like them.”  
“I do like them, though I’m not sure if they’d be as nice once detached from your head.”  
“Well, they wouldn’t change colour, but there’d be other advantages. If you look really really carefully at the right one, you can see the earring hole. It’s closed up, but you can see it a bit.”  
“You should reopen it.”  
“I don’t dare.”  
“I can assist you, if you like.”  
“No, thank you. But help yourself once I’ve finished with them.”  
“You said I’d never be shot of you. Won’t you need your ears the whole time?”  
“Very true, love. We can share them. Or we can swap, if you like.”  
“I think I would like that, actually.”  
“All right then. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, we’ll have our own. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, we’ll wear each others.”  
“And on Sundays we’ll wear none at all.”  
“My thinking exactly.”

...

“Wait, wait. Could you get rid of the cat first, please?”  
“She isn’t hurting you.”  
“Yeah, you always say that, but I don’t like her watching us.”  
“She’s not watching. She’s just sitting.”  
“She does watch.”  
“Oh, so what if she does watch? What difference does it make? She doesn’t know what it means.”  
“I don’t like it. She’s tutting at me.”  
“Cats don’t tut, John.”  
“Do you like having the cat watch you?”  
“Preposterous.”  
“It’s all making sense now. Genius does need an audience.”  
“You’re the one who needs an audience, Mr Coat Cupboard.”  
“Ha, fair enough. But not a cat audience, if you don’t mind. Put the cat out.”


	134. Chapter 134

“Good god, John! I’ve been awake two minutes. I haven’t even had a piss yet. At least make the coffee before you start blathering at me.”  
“I said ‘tea or coffee?’ you arse!”  
“Oh. Coffee, please.”  
“It’s lucky you’re gorgeous or someone would have killed you long, long ago. Well before I met you.”  
“Fortunately for you, I am gorgeous.”  
“Yes, I am Fortune’s favourite.”

...

“Sherlock, we had such a long conversation about this on Tuesday. Do you remember where we landed?”  
“I want to watch.”  
“It’s unsettling to have you staring at me while I’m in here.”  
“I’m always staring at you, aren’t I? Would it help if I came in with you? Would you feel less self-conscious?”  
“Having a shower on my own would help me feel less self-conscious.”  
“I’ll come in with you. Let me just get a towel.”  
“I’m not going to kill myself in the shower, you know. You don’t have to watch me every minute.”  
“I know. I don’t. I’m not.”  
“So you’re not following me everywhere because you think I’ll fall down a sinkhole the minute your back is turned?”  
“Any sinkhole with you down the bottom of it would be a sinkhole in serious trouble. No, John. I just want to have a shower with you. Is that so difficult to believe?”  
“No, that’s easy to believe. I just want to be sure your motives are pure.”  
“Purely prurient.”  
“Oh good. Carry on, then.”

...

“You look excellent in a sheet, John.”  
“Everyone does.”  
“You should always wear a sheet. You’d get away with it.”  
“Well, I am showing more freckles than usual.”  
“Yes, that advantage had occurred to me.”  
“Good, good. Glad to hear it. Any others?”  
“Your right knee is visible, but your left knee is covered.”  
“I didn’t know asymmetry appealed to you.”  
“Asymmetry is interesting. You were right about the scar. It annoys me that I like it.”  
“Of course you like it. You’re only human. You’re quite brilliant in a sheet as well, love.”  
“Yes, of course. Matched set, you know.”

...

There is a really alarming number of mugs in the kitchen, Sherlock.

 

Don’t suppose you know anything about it?

 

Don’t be cute, John. I bought them. Obviously.  
-SH

 

When? Where? Why?

 

I noticed a dearth of mugs. We’d only got three.  
-SH

 

Well, four if you include the one with the broken handle, but I don’t. The handle is the essential bit; don’t you agree, John?  
-SH

 

Without the handle it’s not a mug.  
-SH

 

Anyway, I ordered some on the internet. They arrived this morning.  
-SH

 

Do we really need quite so many?

 

Good value.  
-SH

 

The shelves are overflowing.

 

Are they? Put the excess under the sink with the rest.  
-SH

 

Right, this is ridiculous. This is far, far, far too many mugs. I feel like we’ve been invaded.

 

Oh, they won’t hurt you.  
-SH

 

We’ll never have to buy mugs again.  
-SH

 

You are abso-bloody-lutely ridiculous.

 

Thanks for putting them away at least.

 

There wasn’t room for them elsewhere in the flat.  
-SH

 

Did you try other places? The shower, perhaps?

 

Why would I put the mugs in the shower?  
-SH

 

Why would you buy so many mugs? How many are there, anyway?

 

There ought to be 80, per the description on the website, but I haven’t counted yet.  
-SH

 

80 mugs did not strike you as excessive? What the hell are we supposed to do with 80 mugs?

 

We don’t have to use them all right now, John. Like I said, we’ll never have to buy mugs again.  
-SH

 

What’s it like in your funny little brain?

 

Complicated.  
-SH


	135. Chapter 135

We’d been lazing around the flat for the ninth day in a row when Sherlock’s phone went. As soon as he'd checked it, he popped out of his chair and began to put his things on.  
I was quite pleased, “Where are we going, love? Got a case on? It’ll be good to leave the flat."

“Text from Lestrade,” he said without looking at me, grabbing his keys from the table near the door. “Triple murder. I’m going. You’re staying. You need to rest your head.”

“No, I’m coming along,” I said. “I can manage. I’ve been cooped up here for over a week. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine enough for a murder investigation. You’re not coming. We can talk about the case when I get back. Unless it’s painfully straightforward, I’ll probably need a sounding board anyway.”

I began to put on my jacket, and dodged away from him when he tried to take it out of my hands, “Sherlock, I can decide this for myself, all right? You don’t need to wrap me in cotton wool.”

“John, you’re not ready for this.”

“I do know what I’m talking about on this one,” I said. “I am a doctor, you know. I know how to manage concussions.”

“Oh my apologies, Doctor. By all means, make use of your impeccable judgement. After all, it hasn’t steered you wrong since you put on that horrible jumper this morning.” And he slammed out of the flat. If I hadn’t been so stir-crazy, I would have let the git go on his own. But I followed him at half a run and caught him up outside on the pavement. We’re usually quite companionable, even when we annoy each other. Especially on cases. But he hailed the cab with his back to me, jumped in without a glance at me, and spent the whole ride with his eyes fixed on his phone.

When we arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock bounded out of the cab almost before it had stopped. He didn’t wait for me to catch him up before he crossed the crime scene tape (I’d paid the cabby, so I was well behind). When I approached, he was already sneering at Lestrade, who gave me a rather alarmed look. Sherlock stepped away from Lestrade to look at the bodies as soon as I entered the room.

“John, hello, how’s the head?” Lestrade asked, offering me a handshake.

“Hi, fine, thanks.” Lestrade glanced at Sherlock and frowned. I shrugged. “He’s, well, you know,” I said in an undertone. “He’s not having a good day.”  
Sherlock huffed and said without turning, “I’m having a fine day, thank you.”

“Then he’s being an arse for some other reason,” I said loudly.  
Sherlock pulled out his pad and began jotting notes on it. That generally falls to me, as writing interferes with his train of thought. “Would you two bloody shut up?” he said.

“Your inanities are clogging my thought processes.” I allowed myself a long sigh before I complied. When Sherlock had gotten what he could from the bodies, he began to look around the room, scribbling in his book and occasionally peering at marks on the floor or walls with his magnifying glass.

“Want to have a look at the bodies, John?” Lestrade asked, gesturing toward them. “I’d be happy for your opinion.”  
Sherlock whirled and glared at him before saying, “I’ve got everything I need. Going to follow a few leads. Text me if you find out anything new. And get a cab for John, will you? He’s going home.”

“No, I’m not!”

Sherlock was already striding out of the room, so I didn’t have time to apologise to Lestrade before I followed him. I managed to catch him by the coat sleeve before he turned a corner. “Let go of me, John!” he said, pulling hard. “ I have work to do.”

“We have work to do! By the way, Sherlock, do you think we could sort out our disagreements without involving our colleagues?”

“I don’t need you here, John. Just go home.” He jerked his arm again, harder than before, trying to pull it out of my reach.

I staggered a bit, but held on, “You don’t get to decide anymore when you need me. We’re a team, remember? You don’t work alone.”

“John, if you want to be on my team, you have let me look after you when you want looking after.”

“Well, if you want to be on my team, you have to trust me when I say I don’t want looking after.” Sherlock and I glared at each other for a long moment before he shrugged off his coat, spun away from me, and ran. “Sherlock! Stop it! Come back! This is stupid,” I called after him. He ignored me, of course. I followed him, but once I was out of the building and beyond the crime scene tape, he’d vanished.


	136. Chapter 136

You massive, massive arsehole. How could you run away from me like that?

 

Where are you?

 

Answer me!

 

And now you’re ignoring me like you have the bloody high ground.

 

You are really in for it when you get home. That was fucking humiliating.

 

I’m not useless you know.

 

Fucking answer me, Sherlock!

 

Trying to interview a witness. Please stop pestering me.  
-SH

 

We will discuss this when I come home.  
-SH

 

Too bloody right we’ll discuss it.

...

“Well, that was a waste of my time. Crime of passion. Killer turned himself in. They should have skyped me like they did with the ear chap. Hungry?”  
“You really think that’ll work?”  
“I thought you’d want to know how the case worked out. And there’s no need to argue on an empty stomach.”  
“How could you do that to me? You made me look a complete fool in front of Lestrade. And there’s rule two.”  
“I didn’t disappear. You knew where I was going.”  
“Sherlock, what the hell is your problem?”  
“I think I’ve already made myself clear on the subject, John. It’s a mystery to me what you don’t understand.”  
“We are partners. We work together. We don’t go off into dangerous situations on our own. And we don’t go flouncing off like oversized children when we don’t get our way!”  
“I can look after myself, John. I can certainly speak to witnesses on my own.”  
“I can look after myself, Sherlock! It’s not down to you to decide when something is too much for me.”  
“You do it to me.”  
“Not like that!”  
“John, if you aggravate your injury, it only means a longer recovery time. I do need you with me, but I want you back in top form as soon as possible. If you won’t look after yourself properly, then I’ve got to do it for you.”  
“You can’t just overrule me.”  
“You’re the one who’s set the precedent for that.”  
“Sherlock, think back to the last time you decided you didn’t need my help and went running off without me. Good outcome?”  
“Oh.”  
“Right. Got there, have you?”  
“This isn’t like that.”  
“Well, we don’t know that, do we?”  
“It’s over now. He’s handed himself in.”  
“That’s not really the point. It’s not about this particular case, even though I’m itching for a case nearly as much as you are. It’s that you promised you wouldn’t leave me out anymore, and you’re not going to bloody leave me out anymore! Are you?”  
“No, John. I’m sorry.”  
“If you don’t want me on a case, you can’t take it either unless we both agree otherwise, all right?”  
“All right. Shake on it, then.”  
“Good. I’m starved. Want to get something to eat?”  
“I’ll go and get you something. Fancy a curry?”  
“Yeah, love. Thanks.”  
“You’re welcome, John. I’ll be back in a bit.”

...

Look out the sitting room window.  
-SH

 

Are you doing it?  
-SH

 

Yeah, which way am I looking?

 

Oh, never mind. I see you.

 

What’s up?

 

Just watch.  
-SH

 

You are a mad marvel. Have you been practising that?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

Is there anything you can’t do?

 

Can’t do a forward roll. Spent ages trying in the empty bedroom while you were asleep. I kept veering off and hitting the wall.  
-SH

 

I thought you didn’t want to cartwheel on the pavement.

 

I scuffed my hand a bit, but it’s all right.  
-SH

 

Did you like that, John?  
-SH

 

Yes!

 

Anything to please you, John. Really. I was out of order before. I’m sorry.  
-SH

 

We sorted it.

 

You're right about my head. I'll take it easy a bit longer. 

 

Thank you, John. Means a lot.   
-SH

 

And I adore you.

 

Arse.

 

You’ve a weakness for my agile body.  
-SH

 

Yeah, that must be it.


	137. Chapter 137

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by John's blog. The official one, created by the show. You may want to have a look at it to help with the timeline. Also a couple of entries will make no sense at all, if you haven't seen the blog.

John has given me a treat. To make up for shouting, he said. I can do with a bit of hot-blooded bluster (mmm) if this is the result. ‘This’ being the first installment of his secret little books. It’s better than I thought it’d be. It starts ten days after we met. Ten days. I can’t believe how slow I was to notice. It really is shocking. He says more may be forthcoming. I hope so.

...

9 Feb

Sherlock likes Marmite. Must remember to get some when I do the next shop. He wants feeding up.

 

22 Feb

Sherlock sent me to get him a coffee at a crime scene today. Was really annoyed and almost made a sarcastic remark when I handed it to him, but he looked at me and smiled and I actually thanked him. Well, my brain couldn’t work out whether I ought to say ‘cheers’ ‘ta’ or ‘thanks’ so I said ‘cha tanks.’ He smiled a bit more and raised his eyebrows. Would have been very awkward but then he asked me if I thought the marks on the victim’s throat were fingerprints.

 

16 March

Sherlock woke me with his playing again. Almost went downstairs to shout, but the music was so sad, I didn’t think he’d want me to see him. Seemed indecent. Asked him if he was all right this morning, but he didn’t even look at me.

 

30 March

Took my gun off the madman today. He was shooting bloody holes in the wall out of boredom. Wonder if there’s a place I can put it where he can’t get at it. Doubt it. Need a break. Staying with Sarah. Asked for the sofa, but am already stiff and have not even gone to sleep yet. Must work out what to do tomorrow, if Sherlock is still being, well, all Sherlocky. Sometimes I really want to give him a good shake. At least a good shake. Good, hard shake.

 

12 Apr

Have not seen Sherlock in 6 days. Thought of emailing him just to check in, but I looked over his shoulder at his inbox once and he’d got 782 unread emails. Don’t know what I’d say anyway. Hope he’s all right. Maybe could phone Mrs Hudson? Is it weird to miss your flatmate while on holiday with your girlfriend?

 

16 Apr

Sarah thinks it’s weird to miss your flatmate while on holiday with your girlfriend.

 

29 Apr

Sherlock laughs at my jokes, but not otherwise. Never. Have been watching for it since I noticed. Don’t know what to make of that.

 

2 May

Right, I am not going to do this anymore. It’s making things worse.

 

17 June

Sherlock makes a really fit ninja. And he’s got his own swords. Katanas. Why’s he got his own swords? Because he makes a really really fit ninja, I suppose.

 

18 June

Fit or not, there comes a point when a man has spent too much time lolling round in his dressing gown.

 

19 June

Oh god.

 

9 July

Sherlock is making me spend the night with him in a murder house as a sort of stake-out. Could be dangerous.

 

10 July

Sleepover unnecessary. He solved it. It was the bubble bath.

 

9 Aug

I’m officially Sherlock’s sidekick. The papers are calling us ‘Hatman and Robin.’ I look a complete short arse next to him in the photos. Oh well. I am a good foil, I suppose. Dark and light. Oh bloody hell. Have I really just written that? I am really going to stop doing this. Really.

 

31 Aug

Sherlock left me a 6 min voicemail in which he solved a murder. Hope my phone isn’t confiscated as evidence.

 

15 Sept

Sherlock was naked at Buckingham Palace today. Naked but for a bedsheet. Bloody exhibitionist. I made him laugh loads, though. He’s got rather an evil villain laugh. I want to hear more of it. I already spend too much of my time thinking of how to entertain him. Still haven’t seen him laugh at anything but one of my jokes. Good job I’m such a smart arse, I suppose. He should laugh more.

 

1 Oct

20 texts so far from that Adler woman. 20 that I’ve noticed. What is she saying to him? Maybe I should have a look. He wouldn’t mind. Actually maybe he would. Different when it’s a woman, I think. Or is it? I don’t know. Maybe I should just ask him. Though I already know what he’d say. Nothing. Because he’d just ignore me. I’m really, really not going to do this anymore.

 

25 Oct

Up to 39 in the Adler text count. Getting really bloody sick of that stupid noise. Wish he’d change it. Maybe he likes it.

 

12 Nov

So fucking freezing out today. Keep forgetting to buy porridge. Must ask Sherlock if he likes it, so I know how much to get. Wonder how he takes it. Would be a good opportunity to get some extra calories in him with fruit, butter and so on. Must take advantage of his sweet tooth whenever possible. Yesterday I watched him eat a third of a jar of marmalade distributed over 10 slices of toast. Was quite gratifying, as I had made the toast. He gets like that after we’ve finished with a case sometimes. I like to see how much I can get him to eat. Once he had 13 jammie dodgers without even noticing. I just kept putting them in front of him, and he kept eating them. 48 fucking Adler texts.

 

1 Dec

Wonder what Sherlock would like for a Christmas present.

 

16 Dec

Asked Sherlock what he would like for a Christmas present. He just frowned at me, all puzzled. Have gotten him 10 things of rechargeable batteries for all his gadgets. Appropriate for a flatmate, right? Well, not really, but I can’t give him a bottle of something or a pen set or a jumper. So he gets torch batteries. Have written the card already. Will record the message here, as it took me ages to write it and I may lose the card before I manage to give it to him.

‘A pillowcase full of batteries with which to administer beatings. Or just to keep your torch lit. Happy Christmas. Fondly, John’

Not too sure about that ‘fondly.’ May have to re-write. Fuck. 51 Adler texts.

 

20 Dec

Today Sherlock told me he was going to shoot me, complete with a gun-shaped hand gesture and sound effect. He even put his finger to my temple. That made me laugh for some reason, which set him off, too. We both had the giggles for a really indecent amount of time. No Adler texts today. Feels ominous.

 

25 Dec

No more Adler texts, I suppose. Fucking hell. M reckons it’s a danger night. Still Sherlock doesn’t have anything anywhere in the flat. Almost tempted to flatter myself that I’m having a good influence on him. I did find something else in his room, though. He’s bought me a Christmas present. He even wrapped it. Little red box the size of my hand. I didn’t like to open it. He’ll know I’ve seen it. He knew we searched his things. What could he have gotten me that’d fit in such a small box? I could think on it for years and never guess, I’m sure. Sherlock Holmes is the picture of inscrutability.

 

26 Dec

Sherlock is being a bit of a nightmare. Shouldn’t be surprised. Was obvious that he cared something about her. He’s already obsessed with that stupid phone.

 

27 Dec

He won’t eat. We’ve got nothing on and he won’t eat.

 

28 Dec

And now he’s writing sad music. About her. He still won’t eat. I even tried making toast and marmalade and pretending I wanted to eat it all myself, which usually works. He didn’t even look at me.

 

1 Jan

I might be an awful person. Sherlock is stuffing his face with mince pie, and all I can think is that it’s because she’s back from the dead.

 

2 Jan

She doesn’t make him laugh, though.

 

3 Jan

This is getting out of hand. Must stop. Seriously. Should probably throw this book on the fire. But Sherlock likes fire. He’d ask me what I’m burning and why. Bit awkward. Oh nothing, Sherlock. Just burning all my inappropriately possessive feelings. Should do the trick. Care for a game of Cluedo?


	138. Chapter 138

“So how are you enjoying reading my books?”  
“Very interesting. Something has been bothering me, though. You said I’d laugh at you. Before. When I asked about them the first time. You said I’d laugh. How could you have said that?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You were so unhappy. How could I laugh at that?”  
“It wasn’t really so bad. I fancied you. It was fun.”  
“Fun? Really? It does not read as fun. You sound miserable.”  
“Well, it’s fun to be a bit miserable sometimes, don’t you think?”  
“Fun to be miserable?”  
“Not too miserable, but it’s exciting to really really fancy some one, don’t you think? Even if you think they don’t fancy you. Sort of invigorating, you know?”  
“I don’t remember. I haven’t fancied anyone but you since-”  
“Yes? Since when?”  
“You were wondering if I was going to say ‘Irene,’ weren’t you?”  
“I suppose so.”  
“I didn’t fancy Irene.”  
“Not at all?”  
“Well, I thought she was clever, and I like finding clever people. But no, I didn’t fancy her at all.”  
“It’s all right to say, if you did.”  
“Thank you, John. But I didn’t. Not every one likes both, you know.”  
“Oh that.”  
“Ha, yes. That.”  
“So when did you last fancy some one? Before me.”  
“At university.”  
“Not Sebastian?”  
“No, John! Of course not! I did know more than one person at university. And nothing could induce me to take up with that fool. He could barely manage his coursework. It was some one else. You don’t know him.”  
“Was he nice to you?”  
“Nice enough.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“Our acquaintanceship had a rather abrupt end. That wasn’t very nice. It wasn’t his fault, but still. Not very nice.”  
“I’m sorry, love.”  
“Just one of those unfortunate circumstances.”  
“Worked out for me, I suppose.”  
“I said I fancied him, not that I wanted to marry him.”  
“So what happened?”  
“I went with him to visit his father.”  
“His father found out you were together and disapproved?”  
“No, we were never together. I solved a case for them. But it was too much for our friendship to bear. Too intimate. He didn’t like to see me after that.”  
“Well, that’s gratitude for you.”  
“Don’t be silly, John. He couldn’t help it.”  
“You’re not as off-putting as you think you are.”  
“Perhaps. I suspect your brain is missing something vital that warns you off lunatics and gunfire and explosions and other dangers.”  
“Lucky for you.”  
“Indeed. I’m full aware of my luck, John.”

...

6 Jan

Have given Sherlock Cluedo for his birthday. Just for a laugh. He actually promised we’d play some time. I’m sure he’d trounce me at once. Still might be fun, though. Must remember that he likes games.

 

19 Jan

No more Cluedo. Ever. Luckily, Sherlock has destroyed the board. Well, stabbed it anyway. Pinned it to the mantel with his scary little knife. To be fair to him, I did knock it off the table. To be fair to me, it was only after he’d swept the game pieces off. Perhaps he’d prefer something like Risk. Perhaps I should get a girlfriend and stop worrying about what sort of board games my flatmate would most enjoy.

...

“John, I need to speak to you.”  
“By all means.”  
“We should discuss Irene.”  
“You don’t have to do that, love. I don’t have to know everything. You can hold some things back, if you want to.”  
“No, John. We should. If you’ll hear me.”  
“Of course I will.”  
“She never meant to me anything like what you mean to me. Not even at the time.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. I did care about her. I rather wanted to make a friend of her, I suppose.”  
“A friend?”  
“I haven’t got many friends, you know. It’s nice to confirm another non-idiot out there among the seven billion idiots. Makes me feel a bit less outnumbered. Less stupid in the room.”  
“Of course. I should have realised.”  
“Not surprising you didn’t. You’re so obsessed with sex.”  
“Haaaa. You’re funny, you are.”  
“Not everyone is as tarty as you are, John.”  
“Tarty?! It’s not on to call some one you’re sleeping with a tart.”  
“No? What should I call it?”  
“Joie de vivre.”  
“That is a really excellent euphemism. You’ve got a way with words, John.”  
“I’ve just realised something.”  
“Oh?”  
“You’ve been calling her Irene. You wouldn’t use her name anymore after Bond Air. Just called her ‘The Woman.’ Is this for my benefit?”  
“I hadn’t noticed I’d changed it, to be honest.”  
“Oh.”  
“Bit silly to call her that, don’t you think? We call Moriarty by his name, don’t we?”  
“I don’t think I’ve ever called her that.”  
“Bit silly of me, then. Bit theatrical.”  
“Sorry what? Theatrical? When have you ever been theatrical?”


	139. Chapter 139

15 Jan

Tried to talk to a woman today down in the cafe. It was going well, even. Think she was keen. Was enthusiastically noticing her curly dark hair and nice blue eyes when I realised I was only talking to her because she looked a bit like a certain detective. That was rather distracting. Gave it up and came back upstairs. Sherlock was sat in his chair, and he smiled at me when I came in and asked if I wanted to have dinner. I told him I wasn't hungry and came up to my room. Now feel like I ought to say sorry but am not sure how I would explain what I was apologising for. Also am quite hungry, but will have to pretend I'm not until he's gone to bed. Or explain why I went from snittily not hungry to quite hungry in less than 20 mins.

 

23 Jan

Had a surprisingly vicious argument with S today about whether or not the spoon I used to stir his tea had trace amounts of sugar on it. Finally, he tipped the whole thing down the drain and stood there with his arms folded looking really smug as if he'd just taught me a valuable lesson. Burst out laughing at his expression. At first he just rolled his eyes, but then he started to laugh, too. Then he threw my jacket at me and told me we were going out for dinner. Nice dinner. Drank too much. Sherlock kept smiling and patting my elbow. Must have been acting a bit of an idiot. Nice of him not to say.

 

2 Feb

Was in high spirits this morning and took the stairs two at a time. Slipped on the last one and landed hard on my backside. Long silence while S tried not to laugh. He was unsuccessful. But he did make me a cup of tea and tutted over how surprised I was to receive it.

 

26 Feb

Adler has turned up again. In his bed. We came in from the shopping and she was there. Sherlock had chosen a bottle of wine he likes and suggested opening it as we were coming up the stairs. I was quite looking forward to it. But she was waiting in the flat. Having a nap in his bloody bed. A naked nap. Then she just hung round all evening, sitting in my chair, asking him to work out mysteries for her and flirting like mad. Had to leave eventually. He hardly looked up when I said goodbye.

 

6 March

Had a dream that I was Sherlock’s violin, but all he would play on me was that song he wrote for fucking Irene Adler.

 

7 March

She’s gone now. Completely gone. Forever. And I’ve just lied to Sherlock. About something new, that is. Won’t even write it here. Can’t believe Mycroft got me to do that. Sherlock kept her phone. People do. Sentiment. Fuck.

 

8 March

Sherlock has been muttering about the rush shipping fees for harpoons. Should ask, but am afraid to find out. Suppose I’ll find out soon. Unless the fees prove too dear.

 

13 March

Got a case on, thank god. Off to Dartmoor to find a gigantic hound. Only one room available at the inn. Trying to think nothing of it. Must admit, I have packed very carefully. I packed for Sherlock as well. He asked me to. Felt a little odd choosing his clothes for him. Brought along that shirt. The aubergine one. Folded it carefully. He appreciates my folding. Saw him looking at a blanket I’d folded on my chair once. He grinned a bit.

 

13 March

May kill him. I’d never get away with it. May as well do some investigating while he has his little meltdown. Make myself useful, even if apparently I’m not particularly companionable.


	140. Chapter 140

"Some one called me 'Mr Holmes' today."  
"Oh?"  
"Yeah, it made me laugh."  
"What did you say?"  
"I said, 'please call me John.'"  
"Not Doctor Watson?"  
"Who calls me Doctor Watson?"  
"Your patients, I imagine."  
"Nah, they all call me John as well."  
"Well, you may call yourself Holmes, if you like. I know it's a name with cache."  
"Thanks, love. That's generous. I'll stick to Watson. You'd make a good Watson yourself, you know."  
"That's flattering, John, thank you."  
"Really?"  
"Of course. You're a Watson, aren't you?"  
"And you'd be me?"  
"Well, no, not exactly. If I were you, I couldn't be your husband, and that'd be very bad."  
"If you were me, you'd be your husband."  
"Frankly, John, that sounds awful. You've really got the shit end of the stick. Sorry."  
"Erm. I disagree."  
"I know you do, but that doesn't make me incorrect."  
"You are a marvel and a joy and completely and utterly incorrect."  
"You really don't need to flatter me, John."  
"I never flatter you, love."  
"You compliment me excessively. Am I to believe you're always completely sincere?"  
"Always.”

...

“Look here, you’ve left bite marks on me again, you savage.”  
“Where?”  
“Here on my hip. See?”  
“Oh yes. Whoops.”  
“Don’t even pretend to pretend you’re sorry. You are so pleased with yourself.”  
“Me?”  
“You look like the cat that got the canary.”  
“I did get the canary, John.”

...

"All right, love? You look a bit unsettled."  
"I've got an itch partway up my back, but I don't want to take off my coat so I can reach it. I'm half-frantic, to be honest."  
"I'll get it."  
"Oooh, bless you, John. That's not quite it. Could you go under my jacket, please? There we are. Perfect."

...

“That could have actually been an interesting case.”  
“What do you know about interesting?”  
“No need for that. No need to run off clients either.”  
“I asked three times. The first time I was polite.”  
“Not everyone can rattle off a traumatic story like they’re telling you what time it is, Sherlock.”  
“I don’t want to hear stories at all; I want to hear a list of facts.”  
“Right, yeah, I know you do, but when you interview a client, it’s rather intimate, and you should be respectful of that. Let them set the pace, at least.”  
“Intimate? Will you never stop romanticising? John, if I let the clients direct the interviews, they’d all be a load of pointless, boring snivelling with no relevant information at all. Ordinary people need to be directed. They’ve no idea how to be useful.”  
“You’re meant to be useful to them, remember?”  
“Which I cannot be unless they’re useful to me first.”  
“They’re people, Sherlock, not just game pieces. Their problems mean something to them, or they wouldn’t come to you. They don’t exist just so you won’t be bored.”  
“You know I have to maintain distance to maintain clarity.”  
“Yes, I know, but you could be polite.”  
“Perhaps you should do the interviews.”  
“All right, don’t be snide.”  
“I wasn’t, John. I mean it. You’re a charmer. You can extract information.”  
“You make it sound so insidious.”  
“You know what I mean. You’re quite talented at gentle manipulation.”  
“That’s even more insidious. And a bit dirty.”  
“Ha, yes, I intended it to be.”  
“I know.”  
“Something about you makes people turn soft-hearted and easily-lead. It’s terribly useful; I envy you.”  
“Right now, slow down. You’re going to compliment me to death.”


	141. Chapter 141

"I'll have that back, thanks."  
"No, I'm not finished!"  
"It's upsetting you."  
"It's really interesting."  
"Well I'll read you a good bit, and then we'll put it away, all right? Compromise?"  
"What sort of good bit?"  
"Something nice happening."  
"Like what? I don't know what's in there. What nice things happen?"  
"You lived them, you know."  
"I know, but what things were nice for you?"  
"Shall I just pick one, and we'll call it finished?"  
"Two."  
"Two?"  
"Two nice things, then we put it away and renegotiate later."  
"That's a very different proposition, you know."  
"Yes, yours was rubbish. This one's better."  
"Two nice things, and it stays put away."  
"Ten nice things, and it stays put away."  
"Five nice things. But you have to give me time to find them."  
"Acceptable."  
"And you have to let me choose the moments to read them."  
"How long do you have to discharge this obligation?"  
"Infinity."  
"Infinity? Seems a bit hard on me to wait so long."  
"Well the remainder of our relationship then."  
"Same thing. Once we get up to the moon, we just go on indefinitely, if I understand correctly."  
"I'm sure you do. Well, you'll always have something to look forward to then."  
"Indeed. Rocket's coming along nicely. Any day now."

...

Do I get any grapes?

 

Grapes?  
~Molly~

 

Don't I get grapes for my near death experiences? Or is that a Sherlock-only privilege?

 

It wasn't near death. It just knocked you derpier.  
~Molly~

 

Derpier?!

 

Yep. Sherlock's loads better at almost dying than you are.  
~Molly~

 

Quality not quantity.

 

This may be the most morbid conversation I've ever had.  
~Molly~

 

And I do post-mortems.  
~Molly~

 

Can't stop giggling, though.  
~Molly~

 

Yeah, me neither. Sherlock's really annoyed. He's derpier than I am. See the annoyed face?  
*photo attached*

 

You two are ridiculous.

 

That was him. He wrested my phone away from me.

 

Big brute, he is.

 

Are you going to go on like that much longer?  
~Molly~

 

Are you asking because you’re enjoying it so much?

 

No.  
~Molly~

...

“Is he all right?”  
“Yeah, he’s fine. When he’s really upset, he doesn’t bother slamming. He just likes a racket.”  
“Should we go after him?”  
“No, he just wants some fresh air.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“You can go after him, if you like, but he’s looking a bit stroppy so he’ll probably be rude and walk too fast. I’m going to sit here and finish my coffee and wait for him to come back.”  
“All right then. Why’ve you got toys in your sitting room?”  
“Oh, the bear? That’s Sherlock’s.”  
“Well, yes, the bear and that little ship behind the skull. Why’s Sherlock got a bear?”  
“It’s from when he was a kid. I didn’t even see the little ship. Must be the pirate thing.”  
“Er, what? What pirate thing?”  
“He liked pirates.”  
“Oh, I thought maybe you’d got a secret baby or something.”  
“No, no babies, Molly. Where would we get a secret baby anyway?”  
“You might steal it.”  
“No, we don’t steal babies. Though Sherlock did compare himself to Rumpelstiltskin the other day.”  
“Did he? How?”  
“He said he was about to tear himself in half with impatience.”  
“Ha, I can just picture it. Did he stamp his foot?”  
“He did, actually.”

...

“Molly reckons she and I look a bit alike.”  
“So you do.”  
“No, we don’t.”  
“Don’t you see it?”  
“Because we both wear cardigans, and we’re both vaguely ginger?”  
“Don’t be stupid, John. She’s ginger; you’re not. It’s your integrity.”  
“Now you’re spouting poetry about Molly, too? I’ve really made an impression on you.”  
“It isn’t poetry; it’s just true. Integrity is wildly overrated, but you’ve both got it sitting right on your face, plain as any of your other features. I always fancy it’s balanced on the tip of your nose.”  
“I suppose we’ve both got a bit of a nose.”  
“Well, yes, that as well. It’s a perfect nose, but yeah, a bit of a nose.”  
“Well, it holds a lot of integrity.”


	142. Chapter 142

“How's the writing, John? Any good?”  
“The last time I showed you something I wrote, you said it was ‘perfect for those with short attention spans and soft hearts.’”  
“That was a compliment.”  
“Was it?”  
“Wide reader base.”  
“Unlike yours?”  
“My natural brilliance often works against me.”

...

“Can’t sleep, love?”  
“I’m not tired. Was I disturbing you?”  
“No, I love to hear you play that piece. Go on.”  
“The kettle’s just boiled, so I was going to stop for a bit. May I play it for you after I’ve had my tea?”  
“Of course, love.”  
“Tea, John?”  
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock.”  
“While you wait for your tea, have a look at your friend the moon, John.”  
“Oh, a lovely one. I do like those big, yellow ones.”  
“Yes, I know. You say so every time.”

...

"How do you intend to amuse me today, John?"  
"That's down to me, is it?"  
"Well, I could invent ways to amuse myself, I suppose. I could have a go at the smashables."  
"Actually, I invented the smashables."  
"You didn't invent me breaking things. You procured the box."  
"I procured the concept. And the box. And I found all the tools, including the perfect hammer."  
"You may have sixty percent of the credit, then."  
"Ha, thanks love; that's generous."  
"You've still not answered my question."  
"I'm playing for time. You've such high expectations, I've got to think of something good."  
"You always answer my high expectations."  
"Do I?"  
"Yes, John, you do."  
"Well, if you like you can amuse yourself by trying to amuse me."  
"Oh? And how do you propose I do that?"  
"We could spend the day together, and you could be very sparkling and witty as if you really wanted to impress me."  
"Aren’t I always?”  
“Always trying to impress me?”  
“Always sparkling and witty.”  
“Ah, of course. I’ve an idea. We could make a game of your sparkling wit.”  
“What sort of game?”  
“Everything you say has got to be either a compliment, a joke, or a rhyme. Lots of opportunity to show off there.”  
“For how long?”  
“The rest of the day.”  
“Hmmm.”  
“I’ll sweeten the pot. If you perform to my satisfaction, I’ll read you one of your five nice things.”  
“All right then. Shake on it.”  
“When would you like to start?”  
“I defer to your judgement, John, as it’s always impeccable.”  
“Ah, so we’ve begun. Excellent.”


	143. Chapter 143

To make our game a bit more interesting, I decided to take Sherlock to lunch. When I announced my plan, he nodded, got my jacket down from the hook, and held it out for me.

"Ta love," I said. This remark, it seemed, did not merit a joke, rhyme, or compliment because in answer, he only squeezed my shoulder. "You're going to be a bit quiet today, aren't you?"

"Might do."

"By the way, rule one still applies you know."

"I assumed so."

"So all your compliments have got to be sincere." Sherlock half smiled and looked into my face for a long moment before offering his elbow. "Thank you again, my lovely love. How courtly," I said as I took his arm.

"My John, how could I wish else than to keep to the spirit of your entertaining game?"

"How indeed. Shall we invite Molly to lunch? Can Molly play?"

"It's really not her bag, is it? Not the sort of thing she'd be interested in at all."

I grinned, "You want to think carefully about your ironic remarks, love. Saying the opposite of what you mean doesn't necessarily constitute a joke."

"You know best, John."

...

Having a game with Sherlock. Want to play?

 

I don't know. Is it a weird game?  
~Molly~

 

Bit weird, but I think you might enjoy it. He can't speak unless he's making a joke, paying a compliment, or rhyming.

 

That's quite weird. But I'll play.  
~Molly~

 

How do I play?  
~Molly~

 

We're about to have lunch. Want to join us?

 

Sure, sounds lovely. Where?  
~Molly~

 

Are you at home? We'll pop round your flat and pick you up.

 

Yeah, come round. See you in a bit, then.  
~Molly~

...

After my conversation with John, I tidied up a bit, making sure there weren’t any stray knickers in sight. I thought of changing my clothes, but that’s the sort of thing Sherlock likes to point out. I really didn’t want to hear a rhyme about the significance of me changing from trousers to jeans. Still when the boys arrived a few minutes later, I could see Sherlock deducing as he walked in.

“Very charming,” he said by way of greeting. He sidled away from John and me to poke around my sitting room. John and I stood angled so we could watch him look around while we said our hellos.

“So what do you want to eat?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” said Sherlock at once, “I’m here for the company.”

“Was that a joke or compliment?” said John.

“What do you think I meant?” said Sherlock. He lifted one of my books from the shelf and began to leaf through it.

“Right, then. Molly, why don’t you choose a place?”

“Actually, I bet Sherlock knows somewhere around here. He knows somewhere around everywhere, don’t you?”

John and I both looked at Sherlock. He smiled back at us, “Ah, your confidence in me is flattering.” Then he went back to looking at his book. My book.

“It really is hard to know if he’s paying a compliment or making a joke, isn’t it?” I said. “They overlap. You’re having your own game with us, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

“Astute as ever, Molly,” he answered smiling a bit without looking up from his book.

“Do you want us to guess which is which?” asked John.

“I think I’d rather not know,” I said. Sherlock chuckled.

Sherlock didn’t ever actually consent to lead us anywhere, but once we were all three out on the pavement, we found that’s what happened. Perhaps he can’t help it. Soon we were being seated in a nice little Chinese restaurant.

“Oh, I’ve been here before,” John remarked as we settled into our chairs. Sherlock smiled and opened his menu.

“Have you?” I asked.

“You might say it was our first date.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh dear, a factual inaccuracy. What are you going to do about my use of poetic licence, Sherlock?” Sherlock patted his hand, and he laughed.

“Want to bring me into your little joke?” I said.

“Oh we came here for dinner after he solved the first case we worked together. He brought me here.”

“You two aren’t going to go all sweet and disgusting, are you?”

“Do we do that?” asked John.

“Ergh, god. Always. I’m with Sherlock, though. That wasn’t your first date. Or if it was, you’re both much thicker than I realised. You were dithering long after that.”

“Molly, wise and frank as usual,” said Sherlock.

“Molly is getting loads more of the compliments than I am,” John said.

“My John, everything I say or do is in compliment to you.”

“Right, if that was a joke, it was really mean.”

“How could it have been?”

“He’s already gotten so good at this,” I said.

“We shouldn’t be surprised,” said John.

“It’s such a pleasure to be praised by two people such as yourselves,” said Sherlock.

“Look at what you’ve done, John,” I said. “You’ve found a way to make the world’s most smug and inscrutable man even more smug and inscrutable.”

“Well done, you,” said Sherlock, clapping John on the back.

“I do bring out your charming side, don’t I,” said John, “It’s one of my favourite talents.”

“Must be difficult to choose from among so many,” said Sherlock.

“I was just going to say,” I said.

...

“You are a great sport, love. Really good fun. Thanks. I think I’ll let you off early, though, if you don’t mind. I miss talking to you properly.”  
“My pleasure, John.”  
“Would you like to hear your nice bit?”  
“Shall I get the book?”  
“No need. I’ve got it memorised.”  
“Have you?”  
“‘Have not set foot in my bedroom for three days. Can’t stop smiling.’ Bit sweet.”  
“It’s brilliant.”  
“You like it?”  
“Yes.”  
“I hope you like the rest.”  
“I will.”  
“Does it make up a bit for the others?”  
“There’s no need, John.”  
“I really always have had such fun with you, love.”


	144. Chapter 144

“You don’t have to get up just because I’m up, you know.”  
“Hmm?”  
“You’re exhausted. Go back to bed.”  
“I’m fine, John.”  
“You’re asleep in your chair.”  
“I’m thinking.”  
“Well you’ll get a stiff neck thinking quite so deeply in your chair. Back to bed, love.”  
“Oh, all right then.”  
“I can come and sit with you, if you like. Until you fall asleep.”  
“You may, if it’ll please you, John.”  
“Ha, that’s generous, love. I like that you’ve gotten completely dressed. Just to prove you’re not asleep on your feet, I suppose. Well it’s all going to have to come off before you get under the sheets.”  
“So fastidious.”  
“It’s not hygienic to wear street clothes to bed. Especially not your street clothes, as loads of them have seen the inside of a skip.”  
“Talking of unhygienic skips, you know Skip is asleep on your pillow right now.”  
“That’s different.”  
“It isn’t.”  
“Well, she can’t take off her street clothes and you can.”  
“No, I’m clearly too exhausted to bother. If you want me undressed, you’ll have to undress me yourself.”  
“You know I think I have more experience in that than almost any other activity in the world.”

...

“Now it’s really time to put something on.”  
“Why?”  
“You’ve spent the last eight hours naked.”  
“Not naked. I’m in my dressing gown. And it’s only seven hours.”  
“Put something on.”  
“No.”  
“It’s unwholesome.”  
“When have I ever cared anything about wholesome? Anyway it’s perfectly wholesome. Edenic innocence. Unencumbered by your unwholesome notions of modesty.”  
“Modesty is unwholesome?”  
“What sort of prurient imagination would decide that a person needs to be covered to be decent?”  
“Ha, you are clever. Turned that around nicely. I concede you’re not corrupting anyone. But you do need to get dressed.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I asked you to, and you’re just so obliging.”  
“Actually John, I’m famously not at all obliging.”

...

Any idea why Sherlock is ignoring me?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Have you been trying to reach us? He threw his phone at the wall because he thought he’d been texting a suspect, but the suspect had only left his mobile in a nightclub so he'd just got some random youth instead.

 

I’ll let him know his phone’s broken. What’s up?

 

Come round the station as soon as you can. It’s a big one.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

What is it?

 

Oh never mind. It seems he is getting your texts.

 

He says ‘mind the toe ring’. Does that help?

 

Yes, actually, it does. Miraculously it does.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Thanks a lot. Drinks soon, I expect.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Definitely. Give us a call.

...

“Ohhhhh god. From now on gin is banned at 221B. I don’t want to look at it; I don’t want to smell it. I certainly don’t want to drink it. Gin is the devil.”  
“I knew you’d say that.”  
“Shut up.”  
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?”  
“I’m anti-liquid at the moment. Just let me lie in here silence, but for my whimpers of self-pity.”  
“You do whimper admirably, John. But you’ll feel better once you’ve had some tea. You’re dehydrated.”  
“I know what I am.”  
“Let me attend to you. It’s such a pleasure, and one you’re nearly never self-destructive enough to allow.”  
“Fine, attend, but do it quietly.”  
“You need to eat, too. I fancy some porridge. Does that sound nice to you? Do you take jam on your porridge? I think we’ve got some apple jam left from the parcel Mycroft’s assistant sent when you had your little mishap. Or if you don’t like apple, there’s apricot. Also from the parcel. All these A jams. Was that intentional, I wonder? There’s also blackcurrant and blueberry. Any C jams? I suppose we might call it currant jam comma black, but that’s a bit of a reach-”  
“Bloody hell, Sherlock! I don’t care about alphabetising our jam! I’m just trying not to be sick on my own slippers, all right?”  
“Cherry. There’s cherry. Oooh! Basin, John! Use the basin!”  
“Ergh. God. That’s better, actually. I’ll have that tea.”  
“Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.”  
“And if there are any jams beginning with ‘D,’ I think I’ll have one of those on my porridge.”


	145. Chapter 145

“John, far be it from me to downplay your contributions to our partnership, but shall we just agree now that everything you say and do and are is lucky for me, and you need not clog up our conversations by crowing about it every time you do something especially clever. You’re brilliant. I acknowledge it.”  
“No, no, I don’t think that works for me. Some one ought to be crowing about my brilliance, and if it’s not going to be you, it’ll have to be me.”  
“Are you suggesting I don’t praise you enough?”  
“I may be suggesting that.”  
“Would you like to hear some new entries from my list?”  
“I really would.”  
“All right. Hmm. Number 489: John puts himself to good use in a fistfight, even when concussed.”  
“So I do. Tripping people is easier from the ground, though.”  
“Ah, your natural modesty showing through despite the purpose of this exercise. Would you like to hear more?”  
“Of course.”  
“Number 490: John makes lots of jokes when he knows he’s being infuriating. Number 491: John pulls excellent faces in the gallery so I have something funny to look at while giving evidence and I forget to shout at the solicitors.”  
“That is not intentional. You’re just always thinking of new ways to shock me when you’re on the stand. It’s like it inspires you.”  
“Number 492: John is rightly not at all self-conscious about his new scar.”  
“It makes me look less like ‘a kitten in a jumper.’ Molly called me that last week.”  
“Clever people who looked at you carefully always knew to be a bit afraid of you, John.”  
“Were you ever a bit afraid of me?”  
“Mmm, only in theory.”  
“Good.”  
“Number 493: John is not yet aware that his favourite jam is pineapple.”  
“It’s blackberry.”  
“You’re wrong, John. It’s pineapple.”

…

It is pineapple. Damn you.

 

Yes, I know, John.  
-SH

 

What’s brought this on?  
-SH

 

A patient brought some scones for the staff, and I overheard the transcriptionist telling the receptionist not to let me see.

 

Because I’d be in a ‘horrible sulk’ as some one had just finished the pineapple jam.

 

Which is absolutely true, damn you all.

 

You do sulk over jam. Tut tut, John. The transcriptionist and I are disappointed in you.  
-SH

 

Stiff upper lip. Don’t disgrace your heritage.  
-SH

 

Piss off.

 

Have we got any pineapple jam in?

 

Of course we have.  
-SH

 

I know I’ve got to keep you comfortable John.  
-SH

 

Enslaved as you are to your animal appetites.  
-SH

 

You make me sound like such a pervert sometimes.

 

Yes, I mean to.  
-SH

 

Isn’t that obvious?  
-SH

…

“So I was right, then?”  
“That’s not the point, John.”  
“Hmm, really? That’s a first.”  
“You were right, but you were ill-informed, which is a hundred thousand times worse than being wrong.”  
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Quick, what does the moon go round? Sun or Earth? Or garden?”  
“That was never the fact in question, John! And I thought we’d settled that I’ll never be able to forget that bit of utterly, pointlessly, unimportant trivia ever again!”  
“The things you don’t know are pointless trivia, but the things I don’t know are a hundred thousand times worse than being wrong.”  
“It’s not entirely your fault your mind is stuffed with rubbish. You’ve only been under my tutelage for five years. Takes a bit to undo a lifetime of bad habits. Oh shut up laughing!”  
“Sorry, love. It was between laughing hysterically or punching you in the face.”  
“Hmph. I’d have preferred the latter.”  
“It can still be arranged.”

...

“You’ve got the best face in the world, John.”  
“You do know you do that out loud?”  
“You don’t want me to continue?”  
“No, it’s fine.”  
“For starters, your eyes are not one particular color. You’ll know all about that. Witch. And they’re enormous. Like little faces unto themselves. And you’ve got excellent eyebrows. They’re always bouncing around like mad telling me every thought you have.”  
“They do that?”  
“Yes, so does your mouth. But you’re still surprising. Always. How do you do that? Even when I know what you’re going to say, I don’t quite.”  
“That’s one of my talents, you know. Being all mysterious. I’ve even got this big coat that I like to swoop around in all mysteriously.”  
“I don’t know what’s mysterious about my winter coat.”  
“Oh, so it wasn’t you who called yourself ‘dynamic’ and ‘enigmatic’?”  
“Situationally. I was enigmatic and dynamic in that context. It was nothing to do with the coat.”  
“Oh, of course. In that context.”  
“Your face is being really excellent right now, John. I wish I could show it to you.”  
“Easily done with a mirror”  
“No good. It’ll change. Completely different sort of excellent.”  
“You could try sneaking a photo.”  
“I’ve got loads of stealth photos of you, John. I just don’t like to show them to you because then you’ll know how I take them and I’ll have to work out a new way to do it.”  
“My lovely creep. The world is lucky I absorb most of your creeping.”  
“The world is certainly lucky to have us both, John. I give you that.”


	146. Chapter 146

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"  
"I trusted you, John!"  
"I begged you not to trust me, love."  
"How could you have done this to me? I said 'just take it off the collar and get my fringe out of my eyes, and I'll go to the barber on Monday.'"  
"And I told you to wait until Monday! You insisted!"  
"How could you have botched this so magnificently?"  
"Well, you make it look like such fun to be a magnificent botcher. If it's any comfort, you're still gorgeous."  
"Of course I am. A gorgeous scarecrow."  
"I only meant to even it out a bit. I didn't want you to go round looking silly all weekend."  
"So you've said. Very ironic."  
"I know how you feel about that. Well never again."  
"Indeed. Shake on it. And hand over your scissors. You're not dexterous enough to be trusted with them. Comes of being left-handed I suppose."  
"My right hand is not any more dexterous."  
"No, I didn't mean to imply that it was."

...

Usurper.

 

Indeed.  
-SH

 

Remind me what I've stolen?  
-SH

 

You've been wearing my jumper, haven't you? Smells of you.

 

I was wearing it last night when I couldn't sleep. That's why it was on the sofa.  
-SH

 

I know. That's why I put it on this morning even though it was all over cat hair.

 

Did it help?

 

It helped a bit.  
-SH

 

You should've stayed in bed. I can put you right, even in my sleep.

 

I needed to pace. It was just ordinary sleeplessness. Nothing for you to worry about. No nightmares.  
-SH

 

You know you can wake me, if you need to.

 

I know.  
-SH

 

Talking of dreams, I had a dream about you. We were doing a magic show together. We were all sparkly and wearing top hats.

 

There were hecklers in the audience, and you kept making them disappear. It was the only trick you'd do.

 

You said you'd do your regular act when you had complete silence.

 

You've quite an imagination, John.  
-SH

 

Fancy you dreaming of me wearing a top hat. What rubbish.  
-SH

 

And I don’t do magic, I *am* magic.  
-SH

 

I would never, ever allege that you weren’t, love.


	147. Chapter 147

My barber was very impressed with your handiwork, John.  
-SH

 

He asked me if I’d started sleepwalking. Couldn't believe it when I told him you're a trauma surgeon. Crossed himself.  
-SH

 

Oh god. Sorry, love.

 

It is a disappointment I expect to survive.  
-SH

 

Could he make anything of it?

 

You’ll have to tell me once I get home. At the moment, I don't dare form an impression one way or the other.  
-SH

 

The tops of my ears are cold. That’s all I know for sure.  
-SH

 

Not the rest of your ears?

 

They were already acclimatised.  
-SH

 

Maybe we can get you a nice hat.

 

John, don’t. You’ve robbed me of the patience I need to contend with your clever ideas about hats.  
-SH

 

You and your scissors. You’ve snipped it out of me, you butcher.  
-SH

 

Oh, all right then.

 

I quite like you with short hair. Hope you don’t mind me saying, tetchy.

 

Bite your tongue, John.  
-SH

 

I quite like your face and your head in any of their configurations.

 

I suppose that’s acceptable.  
-SH

 

Glad you can appreciate my head even when it's been mutilated under your hand.  
-SH

...

"You've forgotten something, John!"  
"Have I? Got my keys, my phone, and my wallet. Suppose it's a bit chilly. Do you think I should wear my scarf?"  
"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"  
"Er, no, hadn't planned to, actually."  
"No?!"  
"Love, with due warmth and affection, et cetera, you just sneezed about six times in a row. Your mouth is all messy."  
"A few of my germs will be good for you, John."  
"Ha, generous, but I've already got loads and loads of your germs, thanks. Anyway, it's not just the germs. The texture of your mouth is all off after you sneeze. All over-soft."  
"Are you suggesting my mouth is not as turgid as it ought to be?"  
"Ergh, no, I don't think I said anything remotely like that. Oooh, bless you. Nice one. And again. That sounded like it rather hurt, actually. Oh, and now your nose is drippy. Your tissues are on the floor in front of the sofa on your right. Ha, sorry on my right. Must dash, love. See you tonight."  
"Be honest, John. It's my haircut, isn't it? It's put you off."  
"Well spotted. You disgust me now. I will kiss you goodbye, though. Last hurrah."  
"Thank you, John. Your pity is moving."

…

“I’ve a proposition for you, Sherlock.”  
“Have you? I like the sound of that.”  
“To make up for the haircut, I thought I’d read you another of your nice things. Would you like that?”  
“Yes, John.”  
“Would you like a long one or a short one? I know the last one was a bit short.”  
“You choose it for me, John. I want you to choose it. Shall I get the book?”  
“I’ve got it here in my pocket.”  
“Wait, let me sit closer.”  
“Ready? Sitting comfortably? Let’s begin. Right then, erm, ‘He’s alive. Sherlock is alive, or I’m dead or mad because I talked to him today. I heard his voice. I made him laugh. Spoke to him for thirty seconds, and I made him laugh. Things are going to sort themselves out. Sherlock Holmes is in the world again.’ Ha. So that’s that, then. God, I was so in love with you.”  
“So you were.Thank you, John. That was lovely. Thank you.”  
“Were you in love with me yet?”  
“Yes, I think so. Yes. I must have been.”


	148. Chapter 148

“You do know Mycroft is sat downstairs in your chair, don’t you?”  
“Of course I do. That’s why I’m up here. I heard Mrs Hudson let him in, so I popped up to the empty bedroom to avoid him. It’s dusty in here. I’ve got a headache from trying to sneeze silently.”  
“You’re hiding from your older brother?”  
“Not hiding exactly. I’m fairly sure he knows I’m here. I’m just waiting him out. He’s only been there ten minutes. He’ll go soon, I hope. Was he polite to you?”  
“You know me. Never speak ill of family.”  
“Ha. Perish the thought.”  
“What does he want?”  
“No idea.”  
“If you don’t want to see him, couldn’t you go downstairs and tell him to piss off?”  
“Well, that would be rude, wouldn’t it?”  
“Ha, yeah, I suppose it would.”  
“I was just thinking of going out the window, actually. Want to join me?”  
“Can we? Is there a way down?”  
“Of course. I’ve done it a few times before. I’m a bit hungry, now I’m thinking of it. Want to get some dinner?”  
“Yeah, let’s go. Should we leave Mycroft?”  
“He’ll be fine. If he gets bored, he can let himself out.”  
“Well then, after you, my love.”  
“Nonsense, John. Age before beauty.”

...

“Pardon me for asking such a ridiculous question, but did I just see you and your husband fall past your sitting room window?”  
“You may have, if you were looking out of my sitting room window just now. We didn't really fall, though. It was a bit of climbing, a bit of jumping.”  
“I fear I must ask you another ridiculous question. Are you fleeing me?”  
“We have a dinner engagement. Sorry to have missed you. Hope you can find your way out.”  
“I need to speak with you, Sherlock.”  
“Feel free to phone my office and set an appointment, then.”  
“Office? What office?”  
“Haven't got one. So you'll just have to piss off. Whoops, I've told John I wouldn't say that. Oh it seems he doesn't mind, so that's all right then.”  
“I've a case for you.”  
“Then you should approach me as if you're soliciting my expertise and not issuing a summons. I value my time just as highly as you value yours.”  
“Fine then. I'll call again tomorrow, three o'clock.”  
“I haven't my diary about me at the moment, Mycroft, but I've been terribly busy lately. Don't know if I can squeeze you in.”  
“This is extremely childish, even for you, Sherlock. I wish I could say I'm surprised at you, but sadly I am not. Do you ever intend to grow up?”  
“You might try actually asking me when it is convenient for me to meet you. But you've delayed our dinner long enough. Good evening.”  
“Sherlock, stop behaving like a fool and come back up here at once.”  
“I’ve really nothing more to say on the subject, Mycroft, and you’ve begun to repeat yourself. I think we can call this conversation over. Good evening. Oh by the way, please clear out of my flat before I get back. You're not exactly welcome, as you can't find it in you not to behave like a pompous arse towards everyone who lives there.”  
“There are ways for me to arrange an audience with you whenever I like, whether you are amenable or not.”  
“Are you really so opposed to treating me like a person that you'd abduct me rather than ask me when I'm free? Can't say that makes me feel inclined to work your case, Mycroft. Don't know that I'd be able to make anything of it under such inhumane working conditions. Anyway, like I've said many times before, we do have a timetable. Good evening.”


	149. Chapter 149

Shut up.  
-SH

No.

 

No?!  
-SH

 

You're not even in the flat. You're not allowed to tell me to shut up when you're not at home.

 

I'm out on the pavement in front of the flat. I can hear you and Molly playing that Sex, Death, Marriage game with the characters from Doctor Who.  
-SH

 

I'd rather eat a bowl of light bulbs with skim milk than listen to another nanosecond of that conversation.  
-SH

 

If you're still doing it when I get up there, I'm afraid I'll have to kill you both.  
-SH

 

Feel free to try.

 

Do you have Molly's permission to make that offer?  
-SH

 

Yes, more than. We're ready for you, Montresor. Help yourself. 

...

“Why’s there a box under the bed labeled ‘John’s Mess’?”  
“Did you look inside it?”  
“No. I’m scared to. What is it?”  
“Nothing for you to worry about.”  
“What? What is it?”  
“John, I don’t think you want to discuss this.”  
“Right, I’ll just have a look, then.”  
“Don’t! It’s mine. I’ll move it. Just leave it be. Don’t touch it.”  
“Hmmm.”  
“Hmmm what?”  
“Is this a trap?”  
“A trap?”  
“You want me to look in the box, don’t you?”  
“No, John, don’t! Can’t I have one tantalising secret without you poking your nose in?”  
“That’s that, then. I will die before I look inside that box.”  
“See that you do.”  
...

"John, you look beautiful today."  
"Ha, what? Are you being funny?"  
"You're a revelation in green. Why've you not been draped in green from head to foot your whole life?"  
"That'd be a bit loud, don't you think?"  
"Your eyes are so green. God."  
"All right then. Settle down."  
"Don't you like me complimenting you? You always say such florid things about my looks."  
"Oh are we in a contest about that, too?"  
"No, of course not, but if I want to tell my husband he's the most beautiful creation on the earth, I'd rather not be rebuffed with pointless modesty. By the way, if you don't like me telling you how lovely you are, the thing to do is not bite your lip like that. You're making things worse on yourself."  
"Oh, go on then."  
"Try and stop me."  
...

“You’re not going to make friction marks feel better by rubbing them, love. Try the ointment I brought you.”  
“I know what to do for rope burn, John. I’ve been tied up before.”  
“Erm, you weren’t tied up. You just insisted on taking all the carrier bags because you thought I was casting aspersions on your arm strength.”  
“You were!”  
"No matter how strong you are, hanging seven heavy carrier bags off one arm will leave friction burns and bruises. It's physics. And biology."  
"Thank you, Mr Science."  
"Doctor Science to you."  
...

“John, what on earth is all that racket?”  
“Sorry, I just kicked a dish of cat food across the kitchen.”  
“Well, could you stop it, please?”  
“It was an accident, wasn’t it? I wasn’t planning to do it again.”  
“You’re annoying everyone.”  
“‘Everyone’ being you and the cats.”  
“Obviously.”  
“They don’t get a vote.”  
“What would we vote on? Just shut up and stop kicking the dishes.”  
“I have stopped!”  
“Good. Mind you don’t take it up again.”  
...

“So I haven’t said because you seem to dislike it, but I really like your haircut.”  
“Do you?”  
“Yeah, and I’m going to go on about it a bit because you’ve gotten a few drinks in me-”  
“Hardly a challenge.”  
“Haaaaaaa, shut up. What was I saying?”  
“You like my haircut.”  
“Yeah. Good haircut. Brilliant haircut.”  
“I like you when you’re like this, John. You’re a very affectionate drunk.”  
“Am I?”  
“Even before we were together, you were a very affectionate drunk.”  
“Oh, tell me more. What did I do that was so affectionate?”  
“Once you fell asleep on my lap.”  
“I did not!”  
“You did. It was rather brilliant.”  
“You liked it, did you?”  
“Very much.”  
“Ha, you liked me. You were fond of me.”  
“Well, I’m fond of you now.”  
“Oh, you’ve been fond of me since the first time you borrowed my phone. Why else would you have winked at me?”  
“You should be grateful for that wink, John. It was your coup de foudre.”  
“God, I love it when you’re romantic and pretentious at the same time.”  
“Bite your tongue, John!”  
“Oh! I was talking of your haircut. Good haircut. Brilliant haircut.”


	150. Chapter 150

I am in a really frightful mood. It seems as if it's been grey and drizzling for years. Generally I like that sort of weather, but it's getting bloody monotonous. Found myself muttering, 'What about a hurricane?' the other day. Feeling so listless that I cannot even be bothered to check the website or John's blog for potential clients. John does it for me and dutifully continues to check every evening's papers for interesting possibilities, but the world is insisting on being staid beyond reason. I'm trying to look at a water sample (experiment on different types of scum) with my microscope at the moment, but I've smudged the top slide with my thumb, and the sight of the smudge is irritating me. Try to add another two milliliters of my sample with my pipettor and split both slides. Which is enough to break my temper. I snatch up the little broken halves and throw them at the opposite wall. They shatter (obviously), and I don't feel any better. I can sort of sense John holding in his tuts from his chair, but he all he says is,

"Have you just cut your hand on that slide, love?" Look down at my hand, and it is indeed bleeding. Probably from the palm. Can’t see where the cut is, and it hardly hurts at all. Feel the little thrill I always feel when John deduces accurately (quite often now, but I hope that feeling never goes away. John should be thrilling. John is thrilling).

"Yes." That's all I can bring myself to say politely. John gets up and rummages behind the sofa for his first aid kit. He keeps them all over the flat. I'm rather prone to small (and large but that's neither here nor there) injuries. John shucks off his cardigan, rolls up his sleeves, and goes to the sink to wash his hands. Once he's washed and dried his hands, he comes and sits on the chair next to me.

"Let's have a look, then," he says, gently spreading my hand out flat on the table. "Get the light, love," he says, and I reach for the chain with my left (uninjured) hand and switch it on. John takes a pair of tweezers out of his kit and lifts my hand toward his face. He hums a bit of the piece I composed for him for a few (sixteen) seconds then mutters, "Aha!" He extracts from my palm a sliver of glass about the size of an eyelash and drops it on the table. "Don't touch that," he says. "It'll go right back in." I did rather want to pick it up and look at it. It's so bloody. Red all over. It came out of my hand, and I didn’t even feel it go in. John tears open a sterile wipe packet, swabs my hand clean of blood, applies a plaster (now the blood’s gone, I can see the cut. It’s toward the outer edge of my palm, below my index finger), and drops a little kiss on my thumb. "There's you patched up, love," he says, smiling fondly into my face. I want to kiss him, and that annoys me for some reason. "Next time you might think your tantrum through a bit better? This is why we have the smashables, you know."

"Shut up, John."

John laughs. "If you didn't say that as often as you do, it'd likely really annoy me. But you've overused it, and now it almost sounds like an endearment. You are my lovely love even when you're being a bit horrid." He slides off his chair, puts both hands in my hair (mmm) and kisses me. When he starts to draw back, I wrap my arms round his waist and drop my head onto his chest. Breathe in his smell (strongly evergreen today) and listen to his heartbeat. Soothing. He strokes my hair for another few moments, then says, "Go clear up that mess you've just made, or we'll be picking up that glass with our bare feet." He steps back to allow me to get up from my chair. I stand and look round for the broom. "Broom's in the cupboard," he says. "And when you've finished with that, get your things on. We're going out for a bit. No arguments, please. When you're chucking your experiments across the room, it's time for a bit of fresh air." I consider refusing to cooperate, just for the satisfaction of contrariness, but he’d likely only continue to be perfect and understanding and a tiny bit smug about it. Infuriating. I clear up the glass (takes a bit; all those shards) and pull my coat on. My gloves are not in my coat pocket, where I usually keep them. I look round for them and see John’s got them. “Not that you aren’t always a picture, Sherlock,” he says, handing me one glove, “but you’re going to be just gorgeous when we get back in.”

“Am I?” I put my glove on and reach for the other, but he holds it away.

“You are,” John continues. “You’ll have rain in your hair. And you may be a bit flushed. If we walk fast, as it’s cold out.”

“And that’s gorgeous?”

John nods, “Very.” He licks his lips and hands over the other glove. “And you’re going to be pleasant on our walk, aren’t you, love?”

“Am I?”

“Or at least quiet, if you can’t be pleasant.”

“Oh?”

“Well, if not you won’t see what I’ve got planned for you when we get back to the flat.”

“Have you got something planned for me?”

John opens the front door and holds it for me. “I have,” he says as he steps into the hall behind me. “Just something nice to get you properly out of your little strop.”

I turn to face him, “And what’s that?”

John grins and licks his lips again, “Don’t ask stupid questions, Sherlock.” He offers me his elbow. “Shall we?”

I take it, “Yes. Let’s.” My mood (ahem) is already lifting. John can see; he looks terribly smug. “This has all been quite calculated, hasn’t it, John?” I ask.

He shrugs, his grin broadening. “Maybe. But you like calculated, don’t you Montresor?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, John.”


	151. Chapter 151

“That’s mine!”  
“Share and share alike, John.”  
“You’ve got your own collection of lavish dressing gowns. What do you want with mine?”  
“It smells of you.”  
“Oh.”  
“Mmm, yes. I was positively steeped in you a bit ago, but it’s mostly rinsed off in the shower. So.”  
“So you've pinched my dressing gown?”  
“Yes.”  
“It’s a bit short on you.”  
“It covers the essentials.”  
“Unfortunately.”  
“Oh, all right. Have it back, then.”  
“Thanks, love. You can just chuck it on that chair, actually. I’m only asking for it back out of spite and lasciviousness.”  
“Would you mind terribly if I opened the window, John? I know we’re both a bit damp, but I’m finding it rather close in here after our little constitutional.”  
“Go ahead, love. Wet hair doesn’t actually cause illness, you know.”  
“It doesn’t cure it.”  
“Does it disappoint you when I’m not stodgy enough? Sherlock, I forbid you to open that window! You’ll catch your death!”  
“I’m in a generous enough mood to admit that your tutting is usually reasonable.”  
“Astonishingly generous.”  
…

“I’m hungry.”  
“Yeah?”  
“John, I’m hungry.”  
“Is that your idea of asking me to make you something?”  
“I know you know what I want. You always do; you’re so clever.”  
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”  
“No, you’re unflatterable. You always know when I’m having you on.”  
“Is this flattery?”  
“You would know, wouldn’t you?”  
“Then it isn’t. You’re right; I am so clever. And handsome.”  
“And funny.”  
…

“Could you stop licking your lips, please? It’s extremely distracting.”  
“It’s windy. My mouth is dry.”  
“Well have some of my lip balm, then.”  
“Oh, cheers, love.”  
“Just help yourself.”  
“Where is it?”  
“Pocket.”  
“Which pocket?”  
“Trouser pocket. Right trouser pocket.”  
“Oho, I sense an ulterior motive.”  
“I’m working, John. We’re working. We need to focus. Just help yourself to my lip balm and stop licking your lips.”  
“I suppose I can save my liplicking for the coat cupboard.”  
“Do.”  
“You should wear tighter trousers.”  
“Compose yourself, John.”  
“Right, mustn’t distract you because the sooner you’ve solved it, the sooner I can find somewhere around here to fuck you, yeah? Ooh, all right, love? You look a bit flushed.”  
“Could you get me a glass of water, please?”  
“Of course. Back in a tic."


	152. Chapter 152

“Uh oh.”  
“What?!”  
“You only do that hair flippy thing when you’re really stroppy. What’s up?”  
“Hair flippy thing? What the hell are you talking about?”  
“You sort of flip out your hair with your fingers like you’ve suddenly realised it’s full of beetles or something.”  
“Full of beetles? What are you on about, John?”  
“You do know you do that?”  
“I don’t know what it is I’m meant to have done. You can’t seem to explain it properly.”  
“Well, the hair flippy thing wasn’t the point. Is something bothering you?”  
“Yes, you are!”  
“Right, then. Never mind. Tea?”  
“Fine, if it’ll shut you up.”  
“If you don’t want to be asked why you’re in a mood, you could be a bit less dramatic about it.”  
“Me dramatic? You’re the one who seems determined to argue about nothing.”  
“Right, let’s backtrack a bit. Tea?”  
“Yes, please.”  
“I’ll put the kettle on.”

...

“So Molly, are you ever going to introduce us to your new bloke?”  
“Took you long enough to work it out. Sherlock asked about him ages ago.”  
“I’ve been wondering for a while. He’s just ruder than me.”  
“Yeah, he was quite rude.”  
“This weekend, then?”  
“What?”  
“We should all have a drink.”  
“Ha, not likely.”  
“No?”  
“Nope.”  
“Next weekend, then.”  
“Tell you what, John. If we get married, you’ll be invited to the wedding.”  
“We’re not a dark and terrible secret, are we?”  
“Don’t flatter yourselves.”  
“Don’t we get a chance to make sure he’s good enough for our little Molly Matchmaker?”  
“Ergh.”  
“Sorry, Molly. Only joking.”  
“Even Sherlock didn’t call me little Molly Matchmaker. That was quite disgusting.”  
“Sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking. You’re right. I don’t deserve to meet Neal.”  
“How do you know he’s called Neal?”  
“Whoops, I wasn’t going to mention that.”  
“You’re getting worse than he is.”  
“I know. He’s a terrible influence.”

…

“Could you not sniff me in public please?”  
“Why not?”  
“It’s odd.”  
“So?”  
“People are looking at us.”  
“They’re impressed. Anyway, people are always looking at us.”  
“People may not be as generally impressed with us as you think.”  
“Don’t talk nonsense, John.”  
“I’ll stop talking nonsense, if you’ll stop sniffing me.”  
“You're proposing that terrible bargain, but I know if I take it, you'll only respect me less."  
...

One evening Sherlock and I were sat at the table together in a fairly companionable silence. I was reading the paper, and he was typing furiously on his laptop. He paused in his clattering at the keyboard, and I looked up. The moment we caught eyes, he slammed his laptop shut and said loudly, “Cook me a potion, witch!”  
“Is this your rudest way yet of asking for a cup of tea?”  
He smiled, “Tea? Don’t be boring, witch.” Then he slid off his chair and went to have a shower. When he returned (toweling his damp hair and with his dressing gown hanging open)(mmm), I had a hot drink waiting at his seat. He took a long, eager draw on the mug, wincing a bit as he burnt his mouth. “More magical already,” he declared. “What is this, John?”  
“Magic, of course.”  
“Hot water, lemon, blackcurrant jam, and ermmm, pepper?”  
“No. Magic!”  
“Right, of course. Magic.” Sherlock took another long sip of his potion. “Mmm, yes, now I do see that it’s all magic. Nothing mundane like lemon juice in it at all.”  
“You’re married to a witch, Sherlock. Mind you don’t make such a mistake again.”  
“Shall I make it up to you with a nice pressing?”  
“Well. If it’s very nice.”


	153. Chapter 153

"Well. That was a spectacle."  
"What?"  
"Hadn't seen you flirting in ages. It was just as awkward as I remembered."  
"What are you on about?"  
"Your little display with the barista."  
"Oh good lord. I was not flirting with the barista."  
"No? You were very gregarious."  
"I'm naturally gregarious."  
"With pretty girls."  
"Oh, stop it. This is a pile of rubbish, and we both know it. Even when I, erm, had a more active interest in pretty girls, you always eclipsed that. Which you are very well aware of."  
"Hmph."  
"Did you know that everyone I dated after I met you cited our relationship when they were chucking me?"  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
"That makes me feel better."  
"I know."  
"Is that wrong?"  
"Probably, but it's what I intended. Anyway, you're one to talk."  
"Me?!"  
"What was it you said to that witness yesterday? That her earrings were striking?"  
"Necklace. And that wasn't flirting, it was priming. I wanted to put her at ease, so she'd be informative. For the work, John. For a case."  
"Well, it doesn't matter to me because it doesn't mean anything, does it?"  
"No."  
"Well then."  
...

“Argh! What are you doing?”  
“I need a cold rinse, John, or my hair goes absolutely mad. Use your limited imagination to think what it’s like to have curly hair.”  
“You might have warned me!”  
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t overstayed your welcome.”  
“Overstayed my welcome?”  
“Yes.”  
“This is your shower, is it? And I’m a tolerated intruder?”  
“Tolerated guest.”  
“Very generous.”  
“Well, I knew you’d moan, so I set a fire and put your dressing gown in your chair so it’ll be hot when you get out.”  
“Set a fire?”  
“Lit a fire. In the fireplace.”  
“Right. Important distinction. Well, love, that’s very thoughtful and thoughtless simultaneously.”  
“Talent of mine.”  
...

"Don't you make a pretty pair? You look very sweet together."  
"Thank you."  
"'Thank you?' Is that all?"  
"Hmm?"  
"No 'bite your tongue, John!' or accusations of witchcraft?"  
"No, my experiences with you have taught me to be a bit more comfortable with my feelings."  
"Have they?"  
"Yes."  
"So your experiences with me, your husband, your partner in every possible way, your constant companion of well over five years have taught you to be more comfortable with your feelings for the cat?"  
"Yes. I love her."  
"Well. Glad I could help."  
"No point in denying chemistry, John."  
"No, love, there certainly isn't, is there?"

...

:)

 

Stop it.  
-SH

 

<3

 

STOP IT.  
-SH

 

;*

 

John, just stop it.  
-SH

 

What the hell is that little star thing, anyway? A sphincter?  
-SH

 

No! What’s the matter with you?

 

It's a kiss.

 

No, a kiss is like this: x  
-SH

 

xxx

 

Are you on an extremely powerful cocktail of narcotics?  
-SH

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Stop it, John!  
-SH

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

If you don't stop, I'll break your phone and my phone and all the signal transmitters in London.  
-SH

 

Tetchy.

 

Don't you like my kisses?

 

Not delivered that way.  
-SH

 

Save them up for our next meeting.  
-SH

 

How many was that?

 

177  
-SH

 

You counted?

 

Yes, of course. I shall be counting this evening as well. I intend to collect them all tonight.  
-SH

 

What have I gotten myself into?

 

We shall see. You'll be very busy; we can be certain of that.  
-SH

 

That'll teach me to use emoticons.

 

Let's hope so.  
-SH

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

That was 33. Bring it up to an even 200.

 

Obviously.  
-SH

 

Is there an exchange rate for these, by the way?

 

There may be.  
-SH

 

But I think those negotiations will be too complicated to enter into through texting, wouldn't you agree?  
-SH

 

Yes, definitely.

 

Shall we pick this conversation up at home?  
-SH

 

x

 

Stop it, John.  
-SH

 

x

 

Oh for fuck’s sake.  
-SH

 

I can afford it. 202. Put it on my tab.


	154. Chapter 154

“So, love.”  
“Yes, John?”  
“About those two hundred and two kisses.”  
“Yes?”  
“I’d like to propose a trade.”  
“I don’t think so.”  
“Give us a chance, now. You haven’t even heard what I’m offering.”  
“No need. I’ve got you right where I want you.”  
“You’ve always got me right where you want me. Anyway, I’ve just found a new Nice Thing. A Thing I’d forgotten about. It was in the little pocket at the back of the book, and I’ve just found it five minutes ago. Would you like to hear it?”  
“That’d leave me with only two Nice Things remaining.”  
“No, it wasn’t in play when we made the original bargain. It’d be a new Nice Thing.”  
“An extra Nice Thing?”  
“Exactly.”  
“How many kisses do you think an extra Nice Thing is worth?”  
“Two hundred and two.”  
“Ha, don’t make me laugh, John. Fifty.”  
“Fifty? That’s outrageous!”  
“Consider it a compliment.”  
“One hundred and fifty.”  
“Make it two extra Nice Things and you can have that one hundred and fifty.”  
“Three extra Nice Things and we call it all two hundred.”  
“Two hundred and two.”  
“Well, you can have the two now.”  
“All right then. It’s a bargain. Shake on it.”  
…

“How will you want your extra Nice Things distributed, love?”  
“I’ll have them all now. At once.”  
“You don’t want to savour?”  
“Of course not. When do I ever savour?”  
“Actually, I think you’ve rather a talent for savouring. I know I’ve seen you at it before.”  
“Stop wasting time, John. Let’s have it, please.”  
“What if I made you savour?”  
“John, this is about you discharging an obligation to me. I want it the way I want it, so give it to me that way.”  
“Ooo-er.”  
“Ha, very amusing. I’m sitting comfortably. Please begin.”  
“Right then. This first one is the one I found. Just for the sake of priming.”  
“Stop stalling, John and get on with it.”  
“If I can’t make you savour, at least let me prime you.”  
“I’m primed, John. Let’s have it.”  
“Good, good. Priming is important. These are quite long, you know.”  
“John...”  
“Come on, that was good.”  
“Stop playing with your food, and eat it.”  
“Ooo-er.”


	155. Chapter 155

I’ve seen him. I’ve touched him. He hugged me, and I think he sniffed me. He does that. Tomorrow we’re going to do what we do best. Catch a baddy. I can’t wait. He’s in the next room; I can hear him pacing. I want to go and see him, but I don’t know if he’ll want the company. I’m a bit afraid to go to sleep. It’s like I’ve been living in one of my nightmares and he’s waked me up, the way he’d do with his playing back before he was dead. He’s so alive now. Such a force. 

I should be asleep. Need my rest. Sherlock told me this will be the most dangerous case we’ve ever worked together, ‘This is not a man who objects to getting his hands dirty, John’ is how he put it.

Oh sod it. I’m going to see him. He’s pacing. Restive. He may need me and not want to say. He’ll reckon he’s already asked too much, I suppose. He ought to know if ever he needs me, there I’ll be. But I’ve got plenty of time to remind him now.

…

“I remember that night.”  
“Of course you do.”  
“It was one of the best nights of my life at that point.”  
“Was it? Have you got a list going?”  
“Ha, no. Last thing I need is another list.”  
“You’ve already started compiling it in your head, haven’t you?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“Well, I must hear it later.”  
“Get on with my next Nice Thing, John. I won’t be derailed.”

...

Have been sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom for a week now. Of an evening, we hang about the flat amusing ourselves until he reckons it's bedtime and says,  
"Come to bed, John," in his bossiest voice. Then he drags me away by the hand, as if he thinks I may not be quite sure where bed is. He was quiet tonight, so I thought he might be getting a bit tired of me. Decided to have a little experiment. Began to very slowly get ready to go up to my bedroom. I got to the foot of the stairs before he said, "Where do you think you're going?" Bit rude, but I was quite pleased. Told him I was getting some socks. He smirked all knowingly, so I got two pairs of my knobbliest, wooliest socks and put them right in the middle of his sock index. Thought he'd faint when he saw it. Shammed innocence, and he actually believed me. Love a good wind up. This is going to be fun.

…

“You did that to my sock index on purpose? You monster. Every time I think I’ve plumbed your depths, you manage to shock me again.”  
“Ooo-er.”  
“Shall we crack on?”

…

Sherlock has bought a new suit. For our wedding. He dragged me along when he went to pick it up, ‘So you can see how a gentleman acquires his wardrobe, John.’ He introduced me as his intended. First time he’d ever acknowledged our little plan to anyone else. He was so at ease. Chatted to his tailor (the famous tailor; admittedly quite brilliant)(hard to cock up dressing Sherlock, though) about the break in the trousers and what colour hoisery would be best with it. Kept giving me these sly little smiles. Since the acquisition of the suit (seems like it ought to be capitalised)(The Suit. The one Suit that ever mattered)(ha), he has brought home a series of shirts in varying shades of purple, ‘It’s your favourite colour on me, isn’t it, John?’ Neither of us can seem to work out which we like best. Perhaps he’ll wear them all.

…

“That was quite a time skip.”  
“Well, we may backtrack later.”  
“I hope so.”  
“Anything you especially want to hear about? Any point in time?”  
“I just like having a good look at your brain, John. Unspooling it and smoothing it out in front of me and getting well-acquainted with all your secret nooks.”  
“God.”  
“What? Not good?”  
“Too good.”  
“Ha, it’s a talent of mine.”  
“Yeah, love. I’d noticed.”


	156. Chapter 156

“Hullo Molly Hooper. What have you done with my husband?”  
“Murdered him.”  
“Have you? You’ll never get away with it.”  
“I don’t know. I’ve loads of good tricks, as a morgue tech. I get away with heaps.”  
“Well, you’ve never had me investigate you, have you?”  
“You’ve been investigating me since we first met.”  
“Would we call that an investigation? I think there’s room for much closer scrutiny.”  
“I don’t.”  
“Then you shouldn’t have murdered John.”  
“He’s in the loo.”  
“Actually he’s standing in the hall trying to laugh at us silently. Can’t you hear him?”  
“Yeah, now you mention it.”  
“That doesn’t count.”  
...

"John, what the hell is this?"  
"It’s written on the tin. That's what those squiggles are."  
"Why've we got decaffeinated coffee? Is it a joke? Was it sent by one of our enemies?"  
"I haven't got any enemies. I'm trying to give up caffeine."  
"Why on earth would you do that?"  
"Because it's an addictive stimulant."  
"So?"  
"Ha, I suppose you're not the right person to discuss this with."  
"What's the point of trying to give up caffeine? How's it hurting you?"  
"I just don't like being dependent on it."  
"Hmm."  
"You can understand that, can't you?"  
"Some dependencies are worth it, John."  
"Well, I'm trying to give it up."  
"What about tea?"  
"Erm, I've switched to green tea."  
"Green tea?"  
"Yes."  
"You're not going to put that in the teapot, are you?"  
"Why shouldn't I?"  
"I'm afraid I haven't the energy to answer that question with the requisite contempt at the moment. You'll have to use your imagination. Hope you don't hurt yourself."  
"Very nice. It's not poison, you know."  
"Ergh. Near enough. At least poison in the teapot would interesting rather than merely vile."  
"So you'd rather I tried to poison you than give up caffeine?"  
"Like I said, at least the former would be interesting."  
"What if I did both?"  
"You can try, but I don't know if you can keep organised enough without caffeine."  
"You should give it up, too."  
"Right, John, if you say that again, I'll have to poison you."  
"I've already been at your poisons. Confiscated them all for my own purposes."

...

“Sherlock, what is this? This is ridiculous.”  
“What are you exaggerating about now?”  
“You’ve got the teeniest, most precious little bin I’ve ever seen with a spire of tissues and newspapers coming out of it. It’s like a coffee mug with a heap of rubbish balanced on.”  
“That was a lovely exaggeration, John. You never disappoint in that area.”  
“Where’d you get that little bin? And why are you abusing something so adorable in this way?”  
“Do you identify with my little bin, John?”  
“What?”  
“It goes under the night table, John. That’s why it’s so small.”  
“It doesn’t fit under there now. With all the rubbish.”  
“I squeeze it in.”

…

“What’s wrong with him?”  
“Ergh. He’s given up caffeine.”  
“Even tea?”  
“He’s drinking green tea.”  
“Can he do that? I thought he ran on English Breakfast.”  
“He does. That’s why he’s all...”  
“Tetchy?”  
“I was going to say ‘wicked,’ but it seemed a bit dramatic.”  
“Wicked? What’s he done that’s wicked?”  
“He went digging through my drawers looking for a clean vest and left them all in disarray.”  
“My.”  
“And he refused to apologise.”  
“You asked him?”  
“I thought it fair to offer him the opportunity, Molly.”  
“Anything else?”  
“He keeps saying he hardly feels the difference, which is just silly. And he’s wearing that fair isle jumper.”  
“What’s the jumper got to do with him giving up caffeine?”  
“He’s just being stubborn.”  
“You choose his clothes for him?”  
“I veto things. When I really have to.”  
“You’ve vetoed the jumper?”  
“Molly, I want to burn the jumper.”  
“Are you sure you’re not the wicked one?”  
“When did I ever say I wasn’t?”


	157. Chapter 157

"John, you're going to have to stop it with this decaffeinated rubbish. It's got your smell all wrong."  
"If you're only going to talk nonsense, please do it somewhere else. I'm not properly awake yet."  
"Yes, I know, but you've been up for half an hour. It's getting ridiculous."  
"Not everyone bounds out of bed full of vim and clever ideas."  
"Yes, and they supplement their deficiencies with coffee."  
"I've got coffee in my hand right this minute!"  
"Nonsense coffee. Let's be straight, John-"  
"Ha."  
"Let's be honest, then. People drink coffee for the caffeine. Without, it's just bitter, ugly water. Now you're not better than all the rest of the world. Give in. Have the caffeine."  
"You may be the world's worst influence. I'm fine. Leave me alone."  
"You've been scowling for three days straight-"  
"Ha."  
"Stop derailing me! You have been scowling for three days together, and you've a lovely scowl, John, but I'd like to see a bit more of your range. Now tip that swill down the sink, and I'll make you some proper coffee. Or tea, if you like."  
"Decaffeinated is lovely. I may never go back. Ever."  
"You and your pointless obstinance."  
"Yes, I raise bloody-mindedness to an art form."  
"Well, we have that in common."  
"Matched set. I recall."  
...

"I know what you're doing, John."  
"You always say that."  
"And I always do. You're trying to slow me down."  
"Am I?"  
"That's why you've got your arm round my waist, isn't it?"  
"No, it's because of affection."  
"Then walk faster."  
"My affection doesn't affect my walking pace, love."  
"Well, it's affecting mine."  
"You can have the affection or you can have the swooping, but I'm afraid I can't manage both."  
"I don't swoop!"  
"Well, not when you're asleep. But otherwise yeah, you do."  
"Take my arm instead. We'll get on better that way."  
"No, if I take your arm, you'll just drag me along like one of those little wooden ducks with the wheels and the string."  
"Like one of those what?"  
"One of those little ducks that you pull behind you."  
"Why would I pull a duck behind me?"  
"It's a children's toy."  
"Why would a child pull a duck behind him?"  
"I'm not sure, actually. Lots of toys don't make any sense."  
"I rather like the idea of putting wheels and a string on you, though. Maybe then you could keep pace with me."  
"Oh god. I've awakened a monster."  
"Awakened? Don't flatter yourself."

...

"Agh! God, Sherlock! What fresh madness is this?"  
"You've got a new freckle on the back of your right arm. You sit in a window seat on the right side of the train carriage, don't you? So that you can prop your arm against the window and have your dominant hand free to fiddle with your phone."  
"I suppose so. What's that got to do with-wait, what did you just do to my arm?"  
"Erm, licked it."  
"Oh, of course. As one does. Why, exactly?"  
"Like I was saying, you've got a new freckle on the back of your arm. Just above the elbow."  
"That's not really an explanation, love."  
"It looked appetising."  
"Oh. Thank you. And was it?"  
"Inconclusive."  
"Does that mean you're going to keep licking my arm?"  
"I may. In future."  
...

“Succumbed already, John? I’m almost disappointed. This is hardly raising bloody-mindedness to an art form.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You did have a cup of tea today at work, didn’t you? With lunch, I think. Difficult morning?”  
“Fine morning. I’ve been doing well with the green tea. I’ve got jasmine today.”  
“Oh, John, it’s endearingly pathetic that you’re lying to me about this. Nevertheless it is against the rules, so I must insist you confess at once or be punished.”  
“You don’t know anything; you’re guessing.”  
“Erm, you know I’m not guessing, John. You’ve got a splash stain on your left cuff. Stirring too hard, I expect. Milk really needs hardly a stir, John. Or you whipped the tea bag out of the mug too quickly. You do that sometimes.”  
“What makes you think it’s a tea stain? Could be balsamic vinegar from that salad I order when I have lunch with the NPs.”  
“Ha, please. Nice to have you smell nearly normal again, anyway. Now let’s have no more silliness about giving up caffeine.”  
“I have given up.”  
“Still refusing to confess. You know what that means.”  
“Whatever you say, love.”  
“That was an experiment, John. You’re mellow and pleasant. No withdrawal symptoms. Caffeine. Admit it.”  
“I thought you weren’t supposed to tell me when you were running an experiment on me.”  
“This was a very short term experiment and hardly necessary. I know what I know. Anyway, what about my hello kiss?”  
“I was wondering when you’d let me get that in.”  
“...Ah, John, shall we put that down as your confession?”  
“What?”  
“Your mouth tastes of English Breakfast.”  
“Oh all right then. Every criminal mastermind is found out eventually, I suppose."  
“The ones interesting enough to attract my notice, anyway.”  
“Are you going to haul away me to tea prison?”  
“That’s exactly where I’ll be hauling you, John.”

...

"You see, John, this is why I don't tell you when I'm running an experiment on you. Because I know you won't hesitate to fiddle with my data for your own amusement."  
"Your data on the flavour of my elbow."  
"The flavour of a freckle on your elbow, actually. A little precision of language, please. You'd be surprised at what sort of data I've got on you, John. But that's neither here nor there. What have you rubbed on your arm?"  
"Can't you deduce it?"  
"Something citrus."  
"Orange rind."  
"Ah, of course. Well, don't do it again. You might have really ruined my experiment, as your natural citrus notes are bergamot. What sort of orange rind did you use?"  
"No, sorry, that was all nonsense."  
"Come on, John. Don't be boring."  
"I don't remember. No, really, I don't. It was just an orange, all round and orangey."  
"Have a little more care in future, John."  
"Can't you deduce it? Lick again."  
"Mmm, no I think I licked away the orange residue the first time...now it only tastes of evening elbow."  
"I am quite sure that you have not licked my elbow often enough to form an opinion on its flavour at different points in the day."  
"Evening arm, then."


	158. Chapter 158

When I wake, I reach for John before I even open my eyes, but he's already gotten up. His side of the bed is still a bit warm, though, so I roll to it and press my face into his pillow. Mmm. Smells of his scalp (bread and butter and evergreen). Fortified against the disappointment of waking without John, I sit up to assess the situation. His dressing gown is hanging on the hook mounted on the open door of the wardrobe (get out of bed at once to shut it; can't stand for a door to be ajar) so he must be dressed already. John does not wander about en deshabille (pity). I can smell bacon and coffee and toast. He's cooking breakfast, then. Big breakfast. He'll be in a sunny mood. Lovely.

Reopen the wardrobe and start to reach for my second best dressing gown (the one with the blue stripes, recently demoted) but think better of it and put on my best one instead. New and a bit lavish for my taste (silk, shawl-collar, dark grey, close-set navy spots) but John chose it for me and pays me such extravagant compliments when I wear it. I do look nice. Bit fussy, but nice. It's my colour. And it goes with all my pyjama trousers (none of which are in play at the moment). I must get a new dressing gown for John. His old one is so tatty. He's quite attached to it, though. And he does look absolutely brilliant in green. I glance in the mirror and make a pass at flattening my hair before stepping out into the kitchen.

  
John is standing at the stove, singing to himself. I know that song! Haven’t learnt the words because I want to pick them up from John, but I recognise it when I hear it now. I told him once that I don’t know any songs with lyrics. He looked shocked and said it was a tragedy. He sings, though, and I don’t. He’s expressive.

John looks to the door as I walk into the room and beams at me (lovely), “Good morning, my lovely love. Are you marvelous today? You look it.” I wish I could talk to him the way he talks to me.

“Good morning, John.” He should take the pan off hob. The bacon is about to burn. I cross the room and kiss him. He slides both hands under my dressing gown (loosely tied in anticipation of this development) and rubs gently from my ribcage to my hips on either side (shiver). I try to mimic the gesture, but he’s got too many layers on. I get past his cardigan (unbuttoned. Very thoughtful), but then his shirt is tucked into his trousers and under the shirt, there’s a vest which is also tucked in.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes for seven o’clock in the morning, John.”

He grins, obligingly peels off his jumper, and throws it at a kitchen chair (it lands on the floor). “Better?”

“A bit. There’s room for improvement.” I start to loosen the bits of his shirt that are still tucked in.

John playfully knocks my hand away with his elbow. “Breakfast first,” he says, “or the bacon will burn.”

“The bacon is burnt, John. Let’s go back to bed.”

“If I only got to eat when you thought there was nothing better to do, I’d have starved to death ages ago.”

“I feed you!”

“Whoops, there you go transposing the words ‘I’ and ‘you’ again.”

“You feed I?”

John laughs and gets the mugs down. Undeterred. Ah, well. After breakfast, then. I set out pineapple jam and marmalade on the table. John looks round as he puts the bacon onto a plate. He’s looking for the newspaper. We both spot it at the same time (it’s on top of his chair), and the urge to throw it on the (wholly unnecessary and rather stifling) fire flashes through me (he wants to dawdle). Instead I get it from the chair and set it at John’s place at the table. He smiles. Lovely. I’m so greedy for John’s smiles. Fortunately, John is always ready to be pleased with me.

I take my place at the table, and watch him get the toast out of the oven (what did I do to the toaster? Can’t remember at the moment. Must replace it). I believe he means this to be rather a treat. Must show proper gratitude. Should be easy. The toast is perfect. John’s toast is almost as good as mine (mine is slightly more consistent, I think). He sets my plate and mug in front of me on the table and brushes a kiss on the back of my neck (shiver)(prickles a bit. He should have shaved this morning; he’ll have heavy stubble by this time tomorrow) before he reaches for the sugar bowl, and moves it nearer to me.

I spoon sugar into my coffee. Will wait for John to sit before applying marmalade to my toast, or it will cool the toast before I can eat it. Also the toast is still a bit too warm to handle easily with my fingers. I was wrong about the bacon. It’s a bit dark, but clearly still very edible. John sits and tucks in at once. I hadn’t realised he was so hungry. He makes a little sigh around his mouthful of toast, then catches eyes with me and grins. There are crumbs on his lips and a smear of (his favourite) pineapple jam on his chin. Lovely. I feel sorry to have wished this moment away. But my John has brought it back to me, and I’m now quite ready to enjoy it.


	159. Chapter 159

“They’re clean, John! You can put them back on now.”  
“No, they’re still all over smudges.”  
“I’ve been watching you wipe your glasses for ages.”  
“For thirty seconds, you mean.”  
“An age is a relative measure, John.”  
“Well if you don’t like it, you can look at something else.”  
“How complacent of you, John.”  
“Keep your dirty hands off my glasses, and I won’t need to spend so much time cleaning them, will I?”  
“Dirty hands?!”  
“Dirty enough to leave all these smudges.”  
“Any hand would leave smudges, John. The texture of the finger and the oil on the skin does it. Fairly obvious biology.”  
“Thank you, Mr Science.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
“Are you jealous I’m Doctor Science, and you’re only Mr Science?”  
“Why should I be?”  
“I’m a better scientist than you. Seems like the sort of thing you’d be sensitive about.”  
“You’re a better scientist than I am?! Under what demented rubric?”  
“I should have ‘Doctor Science’ put on the letterbox. It’ll make us look distinguished. Finally an accomplishment for you to be proud of. Marrying a doctor.”  
“You don’t even have that. Pity.”  
“I’m the doctor.”  
“I know what you’re alluding to.”  
“I know. That’s why I said it. To remind you that you know.”  
“Monster.”  
“Yes, well. Matched set.”

...

“Good lord, John! You’ve given me tinitus.”  
“You startled me!”  
“Haven’t we agreed I always startle you? Anyway, you don’t usually yell when you’re startled.”  
“Well, you must feel very special, then. What did you have to grab my ankle for?”  
“It was an impulse.”  
“Do you think you could work a bit harder on restraining your impulses in future? At least the ones to do with hiding in the shower cubicle and grabbing my ankle while I’m having a piss.”  
“No. Anyway, the hiding was planned. Only the ankle grabbing was an impulse.”  
“What were you hiding in the shower cubicle for?”  
“I practise hiding sometimes. Don’t you?”  
“Erm, no, can’t say that I do.”  
“You should.”  
“Lucky you get to clear up the mess you caused”  
“I caused?!”  
“Yes, if you hadn’t gone momentarily insane, none of this would have happened.”  
“Momentarily?”  
“Thought I’d be generous.”  
“No need.”

...

“I was reading that!”  
“Yes, obviously, but you’ve just had a better offer.”  
“Oh, have I?”  
“Yes, John, what you really want is to fiddle with my hair and tell me I’m lovely.”  
“Leave it to you to uncover hidden urges in me.”  
“Hardly hidden, John. Carry on. I give you my permission.”  
“You are generous to a fault.”  
“Solid start, John, but there should be more fiddling. Ah, yes, good. Now what else?”  
“You’ve got really nice hair.”  
“I know.”  
“The only thing that would make it better is if it were blonde.”  
“Right, John I will give you a very generous ten seconds to retract that falsehood.”  
“Remember how you were blonde when you came back to life? I liked that. Very much.”  
“I suppose it’s another manifestation of your narcissism and vanity.”  
“Hark who’s talking.”  
“I’ve never told you that you’d look better dark.”  
“Because it’s obviously rubbish. I’m perfect.”  
“Hmph. So you are, excepting your smart mouth. But you’re meant to be complimenting me.”  
“You’re almost as good as a blonde.”  
“You’ve ruined my evening, John.”  
“Well, you ruined my newspaper.”


	160. Chapter 160

OW.  
-SH

 

OW.  
-SH

 

OW, John!  
-SH

 

What does OW mean?

 

It's an onomatopoetic indication of minor pain or sudden discomfort. Doctor.  
-SH

 

Oh, that ow.

 

What's the matter?

 

Nicked myself with my scalpel.  
-SH

 

Accidentally?

 

Of course accidentally.  
-SH

 

What sort of question is that?  
-SH

 

You once planned to cut yourself on purpose with that scalpel. Remember?

 

Well, if I'd done it on purpose, I wouldn't be complaining that it hurt, would I?  
-SH

 

Might do.

 

No, I wouldn't.  
-SH

 

Anyway. Are you texting for assistance or sympathy?

 

Sympathy. Which has not been forthcoming, so far.  
-SH

 

Tut tut, John.  
-SH

 

I'm very sympathetic. Whinge away, love.

 

I don't whinge, John.  
-SH

 

Tell me what happened, then.

 

Dropped it. Catch reflex.  
-SH

 

That'll do it. Are you sure you're all right?

 

I've stopped the bleeding. Left a bit of blood on the kitchen floor, though. Dribbled a bit. Sorry.  
-SH

 

That's all right. There are special cleaning exemptions for your own blood.

 

Thank you, John. That's generous.  
-SH

 

Did you find the plasters?

 

Yes, thank you.  
-SH

 

I'll have a look when I get home, just for safety.

 

Thank you, John.  
-SH

 

I’d like that.  
-SH

 

Would you?

 

Don’t you know I enjoy it when you treat me?  
-SH

 

Is that why you’re always injuring yourself in ridiculous ways?

 

Nearly all of those are accidental or unavoidable, John. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  
-SH

 

I suppose it’s just a coincidence you like me treating you, then?

 

I like you looking after me.  
-SH

 

Yeah, you do. Is that why you decided to attach me? Back at Bart’s when we met. Because I let you borrow my phone?

 

Because you liked me.  
-SH

 

And yes, you seemed trainable.  
-SH

 

I suppose you mean that as a compliment.

 

Well, it was at the time, but it’s a bit beneath you as a compliment now, John.  
-SH

 

Is it?

 

I wasn’t expecting it to work both ways.  
-SH

 

An immeasurable advantage.  
-SH

 

That’ll do for a compliment.

 

I’ve been advantaged, too.

 

Well, yes, obviously.  
-SH

...

“Erm, no! Get off!”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“I am not an armrest or a walking frame.”  
“You’re just the right size to lean on, John.”  
“Yes, so you’ve said, but you’re cutting off my circulation with your elbow.”  
“You know if I could, I’d grow up you like a vine on a trellis.”  
“That does not surprise me.”  
“You wouldn’t mind me growing on you? I’d chip your paint.”  
“Well being a trellis is probably a bit dull, wouldn’t you say? Be nice to have a vine growing on me, telling me clever things and keeping me entertained.”  
“Is that why you like me?”  
“A bit of it.”  
“A bit of it?”  
“That and you’re trainable.”  
“Was that a pun?”  
“What if it was?”  
“I’ll have to take you in hand and be a bit severe on you. For your own good.”  
“It was, then.”

...

“It’s that sad time again, love.”  
“What sad time, John?”  
“Time to do the shopping. Shall we pop in here on our way home?”  
“Have you just tricked me? Did you plan this?”  
“Me? I’m innocence itself. But I do have the carrier bags folded up in my jacket pocket.”  
“Your craftiness is growing unbecoming, John.”  
“Nah, you like me tricking you. Anyway, we’re out of marmalade. Completely.”  
“So that was the last of it you put on your toast this morning! I knew it! You bloody doused it in marmalade!”  
“I asked you if you wanted some.”  
“You said there was more!”  
“Yeah, then when you weren’t listening I said ‘more at the Tesco’ all quiet-like.”  
“Bastard.”  
“While we get the marmalade, we may as well get a few other things.”  
“Ergh, fine. Have you got a shopping list?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Hand it over. It’ll go faster if we split it up and each take half.”  
“Except that you don’t know where anything is.”  
“The shop is laid out completely illogically!”  
“Oh, god, I forgot you go on about this. You know I’ve read that they engage some one just to design the layout of the products.”  
“Some incompetent. They should engage me. I’d sort it out.”  
“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and interior designer. Got a ring to it. Shall I have new business cards made up?”  
“The other horrible thing about you tricking me is that when you do it successfully, you get really smug and make lots of annoying jokes.”  
“Ah, now when you start talking like that, I know you must be feeling overwhelmed and frightened by your affection for me. Take a deep breath, love, and don’t worry. It’s normal. I have that effect on nearly everyone.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Never.”


	161. Chapter 161

I have done something selfish, and the result is no less than I deserve. My only excuse is that I didn’t know what I was about at the time. I find myself in that predicament humiliatingly often. It started because I asked too much of John. I wanted to see his little book from when I was dead. He refused with such fervent immediacy that I was rather offended. I wheedled a bit, pretending (and hating myself for it) that I didn’t realise how much my wheedling was hurting him. He was steadfast in his refusal, and I wish I had accepted it. No, I don’t wish that. It’s better that I know now.

Thinking I knew best (how many times has John proved that notion wrong?)(stupid, arrogant, so stupid), I stole what I thought was the book in question. It had been in his jacket. He told me that he kept his little books on his person to stop me seeing them before we were together. So I stole it from his jacket, and got it out to look at it while he was at work.

It wasn’t the book from when I was dead. It was the book he’s got going now. I realised my mistake as soon as I opened it. I almost tossed it aside with annoyance (keep thinking of the ways I could have stopped myself finding out about this)(keep telling myself I’m glad I did). The first page made me smile, though,

‘Sherlock has filled the flat with what seems like a million mugs. They’re bloody everywhere. Lunatic. Still. We’ll never need mugs again, as he says. My husband and his brilliant mind. God, I love him. The maniac.’

Lovely. I flipped through, pausing at entries that caught my eye to laugh or cringe. I reached the last entry (dated two days ago), feeling a bit disappointed, as it was only halfway through the book. This was written on the page:

Boys:  
Henry Hamish Holmes-Watson (too many H’s?)  
Christopher Alexander Holmes-Watson  
Daniel Cedric Holmes-Watson

Girls:  
Alicia Amelia Holmes-Watson  
Catherine Agnes Holmes-Watson  
Charlotte Claire Holmes-Watson (hmm, too French?)

I should have known before that’s what he wanted. Of course he does, and he deserves it. He’d be so brilliant at it. It’s what everyone wants. Well. Nearly everyone. I don’t. I can’t. I wish I wanted it, for John. I’d give him anything, really. Anything, anything, anything. I could be quite a danger to myself and the world for John. But this? I can’t. I can’t.  
Anyone who knows me could see it. Except my lovely John, bless him. He thinks far too highly of me. I’m cold, and I’m nasty, and I’m intractably, abominably selfish. I’ve nearly run John into the ground so many times in the past. I ask far too much and give almost nothing in return. I have been the child born to a selfish, cold, disinterested parent (two, actually). I could not do that to an innocent soul. John is just strong enough to stand me but no child could.

Perhaps two years ago, I could have ignored this. Wished and pretended it away. But not now. John has improved me too much and too little. I can’t keep him from this, if it’s what he wants. But I can’t participate in it either. I cannot be a father, not even for my John. If it’s what he needs, he’ll have it without me. I must make him see that it’s all right for him to leave, if he needs to.

I don’t know what will become of me.


	162. Chapter 162

“I’ve done something.”  
“Have you? Shocking. Let’s have it then.”  
“It’s not a joke, John. I’ve done something.”  
“All right, love, well I’m sure we’ll sort it. What have you done?”  
“I-I went looking in your book. I wanted to find out how you got on without me when I was dead. I couldn’t leave it.”  
“Oh, god, Sherlock. I didn’t mean for you to see that. I never thought you’d see that. I should have burnt it or something. But it’s over now, love. You’re back, and we’re together. That’s what matters.”  
“No, I couldn’t find that one. I’d got the one you have now.”  
“Oh. Are you confessing to stealing my things? You always do that.”  
“I saw your list.”  
“My list?”  
“Your list of names. You want to have children.”  
“Oh, that. Ha, I didn’t really mean for you to see that either.”  
“I wish you’d told me.”  
“It was just a moment of fancy, really. Nothing to tell.”  
“John, I.”  
“Are you all right, love? You look odd.”  
“John, I would do nearly anything you can think of for you-”  
“Ha yes, love I’ve noticed.”  
“I wish I could do that, but I can’t. I’m not capable.”  
“Er sorry, what? Do what?”  
“I can’t give you what you want.”  
“What? What are you on about?”  
“Parenthood, John! I can’t do that with you. If I could, I would in a heartbeat, but I can’t, and I wanted you to know at once. I don’t intend to try to keep that from you. If it’s what you need, please don’t let me keep you from it. I would hate that. But I can’t do it with you.”  
“I haven’t asked you to.”  
“I know, but it’s not the sort of thing that goes away, is it? I don’t want you looking round in five years or ten years or fifteen years and thinking ‘why did I waste so much of my life running round with that madman when I could have had a real family?’ If it’s what you want, please go and get it. I won’t try to stop you. I won’t be selfish.”  
“This again. God, Sherlock, I thought we’d sorted that I will never, ever leave you. Murder suicide, remember?”  
“That’s just a silly game.”  
“No, Sherlock, it’s not a silly game to me. Is it a silly game to you? Have you grown tired of me? Fucking hell. ‘A real family?’ We’ve got a real family! Packing me off to the conventional so you can be brilliant on your own again?”  
“John!”  
“You’ve finished with me, so you decide I’ve finished with you? Is that what it is?”  
“No, John, never! I will never, ever be finished with you!”  
“And I will never, ever be finished with you. Don’t you know that?”  
“I can’t give you the things you want-”  
“Stop that! Stop it! Stop deciding that you know my mind better than I do! All I want is to carry on being with you. You want to know the story of the list? I was bored talking to Harry on the phone, and I wrote down some nonsense. That’s the story of the fucking list. The whole story. And I almost ripped it out because I knew if you saw it, you’d think it meant something and it doesn’t. Didn’t know you’d pack my fucking suitcase for me without even asking me about it.”  
“I’m sorry, John. Forgive me? I’m quite ashamed.”  
“Too fucking right, you are. God. I’m so offended, Sherlock. Really, I am. How could you think that of me? That I’d just be hoarding this secret from you for years and years. That I have some burning secret desire for fatherhood that I’ve never mentioned like I’m some idiot character in a crap, maudlin play.”  
“You put it that way, and it sounds ridiculous.”  
“It is bloody ridiculous. And anyway, you’re always telling me you can read my mind, practically. Don’t you think you’d have picked up on something like that before now?”  
“You’ve mentioned it before. Having a child.”  
“Well, as I am alive, I do occasionally give a passing thought or two to the subject of reproduction. But I have exactly what I want, Sherlock. I swear it. Just you. I say just. As if keeping up with you isn’t several full time jobs.”  
“You’re brilliant at it, John.”  
“I know I am, you tosser. Here, give us a kiss then. You look quite unsettled.”  
“I’m better now, John.”  
“Good. Don’t let’s be so stupid again. Sorry I shouted, love.”  
“I’m sorry I was an idiot, John.”  
“Well. We’re a matched set. Aren’t we?”  
“Yes, John, so we are.”

...

“Are you still thinking of it, love?”  
“Yes. Will you say it again, please, John?”  
“Sherlock, all I want in the world is to be with you.”  
“Fortunate for me you’re unambitious.”  
“Unambitious? My aim in life is to be married to the world’s only consulting detective, and you call that unambitious?”  
“Seems a bit of a waste for you to have qualified as a doctor and all that, if all you’re going to do is lay about my flat telling me I’m brilliant.”  
“Sherlock, some one I know would say that is a complete mischaracterisation of the situation.”  
“Some one I know would call that first some one a tosser.”  
“You’re a tosser.”  
“And you exaggerate wildly.”  
“Lucky for the world we’ve found each other.”  
“Yes, John, I do give you that.”  
“Clever of us. To have worked it out.”  
“Well, we hardly could have helped it, could we?”  
“I couldn’t.”  
“Nor could I.”


	163. Chapter 163

"So, my John."  
"So, my Sherlock."  
"When are you going to do something horrid so I can have a shout at you?"  
"Oh, I'm always a bit horrid, aren't I, love? You bear it very well."  
"No, John, you're always lovely. It's sickening."  
"Always lovely? That does sound sickening. I'll have to redouble my efforts to be a bit horrid."  
"Perhaps I should invent a lovely and sickening pet name for you. To properly express my feelings."  
"Invent away."  
"What do you think of 'my scrumptious powder puff'?"  
"Ergh. God."  
"I'm on the right track, then. What about 'my rosy cherub'?"  
"Oh, I'm feeling ill."  
"Good, good. Making progress. What about 'my golden angel'?"  
"Quite disgusting, but a bit redundant with the cherub one, don't you think?"  
"True, very true. What about 'my lovely love'?"  
"Oi! That is a very nice pet name. You arse."  
"Ha, true, so it is. Please continue to say that to me whenever you feel inclined. It's a very convenient indication of your mood."  
"Convenient indication of my mood, is it? I'll have to start saying it when I'm ready to throttle you. Just to keep you on your toes."  
"As you wish, my star, my lamb, my flower, my sweet."  
"Right, stand back. I'm going to be sick, and I don't want to spatter your shoes."  
"My shoes could only be improved with the addition of your sick, my dearest and most beautiful darling."

...

"You two mind not grinning at each other over the stiff? It's creepy."  
"What gives you the impression that I care about creepy, Lestrade?"  
"You're scaring my new officers."  
"So?"  
"Best foot forward."  
"That applies to people meeting me for the first time. Not the other way round."  
"What are you so happy about anyway? Is this an extra nice corpse?"  
"Average corpse, at best."  
"Well, then?"  
"Something personal."  
"Right, that's quite enough, thanks."  
"You're the one asking."  
"Anyway, do you think you could rein it in a bit? Remember that you're smiling over a dead body and not a cafe table in Paris?"  
"Mmm, I've been meaning to tell you something since you came over."  
"Yeah?"  
"Do shut up blathering and let me work, Lestrade. Let your silence be your reply. Good."

...

"Right, no. Stop that. Stop. I can't watch you do that any longer."  
"Settle yourself, John."  
"You're mutilating it. Just give it to me, and I'll peel it for you."  
"I can do it."  
"But you're tearing off these tiny bits, and it's already taken you ages, and you aren't even half-finished yet."  
"Leave me be, John. I can peel an orange."  
"Clearly you can't."  
"Just because I'm not a showboat about it. It doesn't need to all come off in one piece."  
"Why shouldn't I be proud of my dexterity? You're certainly proud of yours, Mr Twiddler."  
"Mr Twiddler? Just what do you mean to imply with that little moniker, John?"  
"That you twiddle. Obviously."  
"Will you define that term for me? It is not one I am familiar with.."  
"No? I'm certain I've used it before. In fact, you’re twiddling this very minute, you know.”  
“I suspected you might say that.”  
“Then you do know what it means.”  
“I’ve a general idea, but I’d hoped you could provide me with some nuance.”  
“Can’t you deduce it?”  
“I suppose I can.”  
“Good, because the definitions you come up with for my nonsense words are always better than what I had in mind myself.”  
"Mmm, I disagree. There's nothing better than poking round the corners of your mind, John."  
"Nothing?"  
"Well. Nearly nothing."  
"I've got lots of pokeable corners."  
"Yes, so you do."


	164. Chapter 164

"John, now that I'm not flailing about in a panic, it occurs to me to be offended."  
"Offended by what, love?"  
"Of our brood of six imaginary children, not one of them was named for me. And Henry Hamish Holmes-Watson is far too many H's."  
"I like alliteration."  
"That was a fairly artless deflection, John, even for you. Address my point. You don't like my name, do you?"  
"Your name is just as gorgeous as your face, love, but it's so you. Seems wrong to just tack it onto some one else as if there could be another Sherlock in the world."  
"Not a limitation you feel applies to little HHH?"  
"Oh, Hamishes are ten a penny."  
"Talking of ten a penny, why've you given us six children? Bit excessive, don't you think? We're not in need of cheap labour for our farm. Or have we got an imaginary farm, as well?"  
"It wasn't six children, nor any children at all. Six names. For options."  
"Ah, I see. Options. Unsurprisingly prosaic options."  
"Oh now you're having a go at my taste in names? Very nice. What would be less prosaic? Don't think I'm not shocked to hear you denounce the prosaic, by the way. Seems as if that'd be a selling point for you. As against poetry as you claim to be."  
"Shall I submit a list, as well?"  
"Submit it to who?"  
"'To whom', for the love of god, John. How many times must I explain the correct application of relative pronouns to you? Whom is always the object; who is always the subject. It’s very simple."  
"Whom, then?"  
"To you, of course. Aren't you the name expert?"  
"It was only a doodle! It wouldn't have existed at all if Harry weren't so boring on the phone."  
"Well, imaginary children have been brought into the world under worse pretenses, I suspect. As have real children, come to that."  
"Yeah, I think I was an accident."  
"So was I. Well, give me some time to think about this. Our six charming, imaginary, farmer children deserve only the best."  
"This is getting really silly, love."  
"John, please allow me the opportunity to occasionally rise to your level of silliness. I realise it is not a plane we mortals can long dwell on, but it buoys my dreams of greater things."  
"Right, I think you've had quite enough wine for this evening."  
"Another of your areas of expertise. Hand me that pad. We’ll do it now."  
“Oh, do you want my help?”  
“No, come to think of it. Shut up for a minute.”

 

Lileas Watson-Holmes  
Isla Watson-Holmes  
Esme Watson-Holmes

 

Magnus Watson-Holmes  
Baldwin Watson-Holmes  
Lennox Watson-Holmes

 

“No middle names?”  
“Extraneous.”  
“They don’t sound much like farmers.”  
“So you admit there is a farm?”  
“Well, only the farm you established. Why’ve you swapped round the hyphenate?”  
“I like Watson. Anyway, I thought I’d embarrass you by being more generous than you are.”  
“How’ve you been more generous than me?”  
“‘Than I’, John! Honestly. Anyway, if I’m at all generous after you’ve been ungenerous, I get extra credit.”  
“Do you?”  
“Yes, in fact, my generosity counts for double what yours does.”  
“Does it?”  
“Yes, you’re naturally generous, and I’m appallingly selfish. My generosity is dearer than yours, as you’ve flooded the market with yours.”  
“That’s some really interesting logic, love.”  
“John, you’re patronising me because I’m drunk. Don’t force me to say something really cutting and witty to show how unnecessary that is.”  
“Oh, I think I could withstand it.”  
“Ooh, look, there’s only a glass and a half left. Shall I just finish the bottle, then?”


	165. Chapter 165

“Oi! Sherlock! What the fuck have you done to my coat?!”  
"I needed the sleeve to insulate some tubing."  
"Couldn't you have used a towel?"  
“I tried, but it kept slipping off and it wasn't thick enough. The sleeve worked much better. Don’t worry, John, I kept the sleeve. I’ll have my tailor fix it back on later today. I’ve already texted him, and he says to bring it by, and he’ll have a look.”  
“I’ve got to go to work today Sherlock. I meant to leave now!”  
“Well, phone and tell them you’re ill.”  
“Sherlock, I’m a bloody doctor. I can’t just skive and lark about with you. People depend on me.”  
“Yes, you really get off on that, don’t you?”  
“Oh, don’t think I don’t know a deflection when I hear it. I have to leave now. What the fuck am I supposed to do without a coat? It’s freezing out.”  
“Take mine.”  
“Erm, no.”  
“No? Why not?”  
“Because you’re a head taller than me and if I wear your ridiculous coat, I’ll look like two short blokes standing on each other’s shoulders.”  
“Wear one of your others.”  
“I haven't got any others.”  
“Of course you do.”  
“No, I have one coat and two jackets. Had one coat. Now I’ve got a mistake and two jackets.”  
“Only one coat?”  
“You’ve only got one coat. Anyway, stop it. This is just arguing; this is not fixing. Need a coat, Sherlock. Set your brilliant mind to that.”  
“Let’s pop down to Mrs Hudson’s and see if she’s got anything you can wear.”

...

 

Mr Spencer says you’ll need to come in for a fitting, so he can check how long to make the sleeves.  
-SH

 

Generally, he closes at 5, but he can keep open until 7, so you must leave work at 6 sharp.  
-SH

 

What does he need me for? Can’t he just make that sleeve the same as the other?”

 

Apparently, fixing it back on will shorten it, so he’ll need to shorten the other as well. Hence the fitting.  
-SH

 

I can’t leave early on no notice because you cut the sleeve off my coat. You created this mess without me and you can sort it without me.

 

Well, I’d pop by the surgery and borrow your arms, but I don’t think you’d be much of a doctor without them.  
-SH

 

Ha fucking ha.

 

Tomorrow then?  
-SH

 

You’d better tell your coat to sleep with one eye open, Sherlock.

 

John, you wouldn’t.  
-SH

 

Really, John, don’t.  
-SH

 

I’m begging you for mercy. Please leave my coat alone.  
-SH

 

John?  
-SH

 

Do I have your word, John?  
-SH

 

John?  
-SH

 

Please, John, the coat is like a fifth limb.  
-SH

 

Well, sixth, haha.  
-SH

 

John?  
-SH


	166. Chapter 166

"Hullo love."  
"John, hello. How are you?"  
"Bit tired. Glad to be home. And you?"  
"Fine. Are you hungry? Shall we get some dinner?"  
"Ha, yeah, I'm hungry but I don't fancy going out at the moment."  
"I'll fix you something."  
"Oh, thanks, love. That's really nice."  
"My pleasure, John. What about a kiss first?"  
"Oh, of course."  
"...mmm. Shall I put the kettle on?"  
"Yeah, cheers, love. You're very industrious this evening."  
"No trouble."  
"My love, I'm sorry I was a bit cross with you this morning."  
"Are you?"  
"Yeah, there was no excuse."  
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it was rather trying for you to realise right before leaving for work that you were missing a coat sleeve."  
"No, really there was no excuse to be angry. An expression comes to mind. Not sure if you're familiar with it. Don't get mad, get even."  
"What?"  
"You heard me."  
"God, John, my blood's gone cold. What are you going to do to me?"  
"Weren't you just about to put the kettle on? I could really do with a cuppa."  
"What have you got planned, John? What are you going to do to me?"  
"I'm certainly not going to do anything to anyone before I've had a cup of tea. Do you mind, love?"  
"John, you're frightening me."  
"You like to be frightened, don't you?"  
"Yes. A bit. By you, I do."  
"Well then. You're in for a treat. Tea?"  
"Look, John, I've got gooseflesh."  
"Yeah, I know. Looks lovely on you."

...

"Well, isn't this a treat? Doesn't it itch to wear that on your bare skin?"  
"I have to keep it with me. You can't be trusted."  
"Neither your exhibitionism nor your vigilance will save you, you know."  
"John, please."  
"Please what, love?"  
"Find your mercy, John."  
"Sorry. I was keeping it in my sleeve."

...

"You're a monster."  
"Flattery will get you everywhere."  
"How did you do this? I've been wearing it all day, every day for the last week."  
"I know; it's been very entertaining."  
"What is this? It's not even a coat. It's a sack."  
"You'll find it's still a coat, I think. If you look carefully. I didn't mutilate it like some careless, thoughtless, reckless detective."  
"What have you done to it?"  
"I sewed the sleeves together and the hem to the collar."  
"Well, fix it!"  
"You're so clever at cutting; you fix it."  
"I'll ruin it."  
"Will you? Do you ruin coats by cutting them? That doesn't sound like you, does it?"  
"I got yours fixed."  
"The sleeves are too short now. My cuffs stick out. They get damp when I hold my umbrella."  
"Well, I'll get you another one, then."  
"Oh, ta love. That's very generous."  
"Will you fix mine, then?"  
"I suppose I could do that. After all, this is only, hmm what did I call it before? The apéritif."  
"Oh god."  
"Hope you're hungry."

...

John, I have been walking around like this all day!  
-SH

 

Like what, love?

 

With your little addition.  
-SH

 

Don’t you like it? It was so hard to find lace to match your coat. I nearly did the cuffs, too, but I thought it might look a bit overdone.

 

Hadn't made ruffles in a while. I think it's a bit uneven on the left. Does it look all right? Took ages.

 

Molly just asked me why I'm dressed like Captain Hook today.  
-SH

 

It's always a pleasure when some one appreciates your homage. Tell her thanks for me.

 

I will as soon as she stops laughing.  
-SH


	167. Chapter 167

I’m sat in my chair (drawn back a bit from its usual spot because John would have a fire and the room is bloody hot) pretending to read the paper, but actually watching John. He’s got my coat spread out over his knees, and he’s using a seam-ripper to pick apart the stitches binding his ruffles to the hem. He looks so pleased with himself, smiling and humming. He glances at me, then grins to see me looking at him. I duck back behind the paper and hear him chuckle.

“You can look at me, if you like, love. I’m not a gorgon. I won’t turn you to stone with one glance from my eye. Though some one handsome did call me a monster recently.”

“Mmm,” I say from behind the paper. I want him to go back to daydreaming about whatever it was that was making him hum like that. He chuckles again. We’re silent for a few moments before he starts humming again. I believe it helps him to focus. I can hear him worrying at a particularly tight stitch with the seam-ripper. He’s probably put his tongue out. I resist lowering the paper to see if I’m right in that supposition.

There’s a little snap as the thread breaks, and John whispers, “Aha!” I realise I’m fiddling with the newspaper and shuffling my feet a bit (want to touch John, but do not want to interfere with him while he’s being so interesting). John will have noticed. Force myself to stop fidgeting.Trying to keep still makes me feel like I’m holding my breath. I consider going to my microscope, but I haven’t got any particularly interesting samples to look at. Would just find something noisy to fidget with there. I want John to remain focused on his task, not wonder about my restiveness.

Stand up and wander into the kitchen. Once I’m there I decide to make tea. Put the kettle on. John’s fixed a little notice to the mug tree that reads, ‘Just wash one.’ A recent addition. Two weeks ago, he announced that forty of the eighty (eighty-three including the ones we’d already got) mugs were dirty and only ten mugs at a time were to be in distribution. Then he washed them all (and made me dry them)(would not hear of letting them air dry) and packed seventy-three of them up in boxes, which are now sitting in the empty bedroom.

Kitchen’s no good. I can’t hear John humming and seam-ripping over the gurgling of the electric kettle. Didn't actually want tea anyway. Turn the kettle off and tip the water down the drain. Go back into the sitting room and lie on the sofa. Shut my eyes. Even so far back from the fire it’s too warm in the room. Tug at the neck of my t-shirt. It’s damp; I’m sweating. John is singing a bit now. Lovely. For the most part, I can’t make out the words until he says (sings), “‘...little fool, you never can win...’”

Open my eyes and sit up, “What’s that, John? Have you composed theme music for your pranks?”

John laughs, “No, love. It’s Sinatra.”

“Oh.” Bit disappointed. “Here’s me flattered by your efforts. Pity.”

John laughs again, “You weren’t flattered by my efforts before?”

“Well, I’m always flattered by your efforts on my behalf, John. Even when they’re borne of spite and wickedness.”

John is terribly pleased with that answer. He laughs for a long time before he replies, “You’re a very good sport, love, thanks. It’s such a pleasure to play with you.”

“Have you any more wickedness planned for me, my wicked witch?”

John laughs, “I did have some more in mind, actually, but I’m getting tired of plotting against you, love. You don’t mind if I just leave it?”

“If you think I’ve had enough, John.”

John’s giggles are growing hoarse from overuse (I say ‘overuse’...). Lovely. I’m quite pleased with myself. “You are on sparkling form tonight, love,” he remarks, as he tears free the last of the ruffles. He rolls the lace into a loose ball and tosses it at me before getting out of his chair and coming to throw my coat over me, “There you are, love. Better than ever.”

I kick off the coat and catch him by the hand. “Come closer, witch. You’re due for a pressing.” John allows me to pull him onto the sofa. He rests one hand on my hip and bends to kiss me. Mm lovely.

After a moment, John draws back slightly, “Budge up, love,” he says, pressing gently on my hip. I shift so that I’m lying on my side. John squeezes in, half reclined on his back, resting against the arm of the sofa. He tucks his right arm behind my shoulders, and pulls me against him. Today he mostly smells of wool (try not to sniff too loudly). “All right?” John asks.

“Just right. John.” He sighs. I can feel his breath against my hair when he does. “I’m sorry I ruined your coat, John.” I hadn’t told him that yet. It’s just occurred to me. “It was a lovely coat.”

“The new one is lovely too,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

“You’re lovely.”

John smiles (can’t see his face, obviously, but feel his chin move), “I rather like it when you do things you regret, love. You come over all sweet and cuddly when you’re trying to make it up to me.”

“Bite your tongue, John.”

“Mmm, what if I bite yours instead?”

“An acceptable compromise.”

He does try, but he can’t for laughing.


	168. Chapter 168

“All right, John?”  
“Hmm? Fine. Yeah.”  
“Nightmare?”  
“No, not a nightmare.”  
“What was it, then?”  
“How can you tell there was something?”  
“Your expression.”  
“I was having that dream again.”  
“The one where you’re my violin?”  
“Celeste.”  
“Ha, yes.”  
“Yeah, that one.”  
“How was that?:”  
“It’s always unsettling.”  
“What did I do with you? Did I play you?”  
“You like talking about this too much.”  
“I’m pleased with how deeply I’ve pervaded you, John. Tell me about your dream. Please. Did I play you?”  
“Yes.”  
“What did I play?”  
“I don’t know what it’s called.”  
“Hum it.”  
“I can’t. It’s too complicated.”  
“Mmm. I like the sound of that.”  
“You didn’t play long.”  
“No? Pity.”  
“No, only for a bit, then you.”  
“Yes? Then I what?”  
“You held me on your knee and plucked my strings.”  
“Ah.”  
“Don’t laugh.”  
“I’m not.”  
“It’s so intimate.”  
“Yes, it sounds like it.”  
“Do you ever dream about me?”  
“What do you think?”  
“Come on Sherlock, I told you mine. Don’t make me pull it out of you.”  
“Would I do that?”  
“What sorts of dreams do you have about me?”  
“I wish I dreamed of being one of your effects like you dream of being my violin. One of your jumpers. Or your mug. Or your pen. Or a bit of you. Like a freckle or an eyelash or an earlobe.”  
“You want to dream of being inanimate?”  
“Is it peaceful? It seems like it’d be peaceful.”  
“This one wasn’t.”  
“Mmm, no, this one wouldn’t be.”  
“You’re not going to tell me about your dreams of me?”  
“Sometime.”  
“Theatrical sod.”  
“Clearly my performances are something you enjoy, John, or you wouldn’t dream of being an instrument of their execution.”  
“Love, I’m an instrument of their execution in my waking life as well.”  
“Ha, yes, I suppose you are.”

...

"Don't look at me like that. I know what you're thinking."  
"Do you? Clever you."  
"You're thinking of my dream. Are you experimenting on me?"  
"John, I'm playing because it helps me to think. Not everything I do is about making you squirm."  
"I'm not squirming."  
"No?"  
"So you are trying to make me squirm, then."  
"If I were, I have much more direct methods of doing that."  
"But you prefer the indirect methods."  
"I'll leave you to your deductions, if you'll leave me to my playing."

...

“There, better?”  
“Yes, thank you, John. Much better.”  
“I told you it would go in your eyes if you didn’t shut them.”  
“I wanted to watch you. Well, next time we’ll have to use the safety glasses.”  
“I don’t know if I could get going with you looking up at me from behind those things. I’d be laughing too hard.”  
“I think we both know that laughing is little impediment to getting going. And wearing the glasses is better than losing an eye.”  
“That’s flattering, but I’ve never heard of spunk putting out an eye, Sherlock.”  
“I’m a record setter.”  
“They’d put that in the record books, would they? Sherlock Holmes, first man to lose an eye to spunk.”  
“Well, we might have to write a few letters.”

…

“Tell me about one of your John dreams.”  
“Mmm. Drowsy.”  
“Go on. It’s fitting pillow talk, don’t you think? Dreams.”  
“I’m falling asleep, John. Hush and fiddle with my hair. Ow! Not so hard!”  
“Whoops. I thought you wanted me to liven you up. That generally makes you very lively.”  
“Brute.”  
“What about a swap, then?”  
“I’m listening.”  
“I had the dreams before we were together, you know.”  
“I know.”  
“Well.”  
“You would tell me about one? From before?”  
“Is that what you want?”  
“What do you want to swap, John?”  
“Don’t be thick.”  
“You go first.”  
“You.”  
“All right then-”  
“Ha, that was easy.”  
“You want to hear it, don’t you?”  
“Go on then.”  
“Thank you, John. I dream that we’re running handcuffed together. Like we did when we were arrested.”  
“Ha, I have that one, too."  
“Really?”  
“Yeah. I didn’t like to say because. Well you know.”  
“Sometimes we fly.”  
“Oh, we don’t fly in mine. You’d rather dream of being inanimate than dream of flying?”  
“Tell me yours.”  
“I had one when you got your new violin.”  
“Did you?”  
“Yes. You played that Bach piece on me.”  
“Bach’s Partita No One.”  
“Yes.”  
“And how did you like that?”  
“Too much. I had to stay away from you for a bit.”  
“What would have happened if you hadn’t?”  
“Something drastic.”  
"What a world that would have been."


	169. Chapter 169

You’d better bring me some rubbish.  
-SH

 

Sorry, what?

 

I don’t understand the question.  
-SH

 

What do you want rubbish for?

 

There, now is it really so hard to be minimally coherent?  
-SH

 

For you it is.

 

What do you want rubbish for?

 

For the smashables. Box is empty.  
-SH

 

How could the box be empty?

 

I’ve smashed all that was left. BORED, JOHN.  
-SH

 

Bring me some rubbish. Something good to smash. Perhaps furniture? I think I’ve got a little hatchet somewhere.  
-SH

 

If you want rubbish, go and get it.

 

No furniture. No hatchets.

 

Mind that, Montresor. No hatchets. 

 

Yes, your first message on the subject was transmitted perfectly well, Fortunato.  
-SH 

 

You bring the rubbish to me. Replenishing the smashables is your responsibility.  
-SH

 

How’d you work that out?

 

It’s your box.  
-SH

 

Besides it’s in your best interest to prevent my bouts of ennui.  
-SH

 

I do that with my sunny disposition.

 

If you’d bring your sunny disposition (and the rest of you) back to the flat, I might not need to smash.  
-SH

 

You’re contradicting yourself.

 

So?  
-SH

 

Yeah, I don’t know why I bother pointing that out. You never care.

 

I'm afraid I can’t explain this present piece of nonsensical behaviour any better than you can.  
-SH

 

I thought you were a John Watson expert.

 

I am the world’s foremost expert on John Watson. Obviously. But it’s quite a long scale.  
-SH

 

I am permitting this digression because it’s a subject I enjoy. Don’t think I’ve forgotten my original objective, John.  
-SH

 

You’re starting home now, aren’t you? Bring me something.  
-SH

 

I am starting home now, but I’m not bringing you any rubbish.

 

I wouldn’t it rule it out so quickly, if I were you, John.  
-SH

 

I can be so persuasive.  
-SH

 

And I know all your, ah, pressure points. Like I said, I’m the world’s foremost expert on John Watson.  
-SH

 

But it’s quite a long scale.

 

Perhaps you’d like to have a rubbish ramble with me this evening.  
-SH

 

A rubbish ramble? What’s that? Aside from incredibly precious by the sound of it.

 

Not sure what the textual equivalent of biting your tongue is, John, but if you think of it, do it.  
-SH

 

It’s exactly what it sounds like.  
-SH

 

We go poking in alleys after dark looking for rubbish?

 

Full moon tonight. We can hold each other's hands.  
-SH

 

That is precious.

 

For your benefit.  
-SH

 

The full moon excluded, of course. I won't even say I'd put it there for you if I could because I think it'd be a bit selfish of me to disrupt the tides just so you'll look like you can't wait for our spaceship.  
-SH

 

Still though. The things I do for you.  
-SH

 

All right then, I’ll join you on your rubbish ramble.

 

Mind you, only to make that remark even more ironic than it already is.

 

It almost isn’t worth it  
-SH

 

Liar.

…

“Hullo love. Wasn’t expecting to see you out here.”  
“I know to expect you between 6:19 and 6:27, so I came down at 6:17. I’ve not been waiting long.”  
“Madman. Give us a kiss then before we begin our trek.”  
“Will you have your scarf, John?”  
“Yes, love, thanks. I was just wondering how much you’d pout if I went upstairs to wrap up a bit more.”  
“I don’t pout, John.”  
“Lucky for me, you do, love. Looks gorgeous. Have you got my torch?”  
“Of course. I assume you’ve got your gloves, since they weren’t on your dresser.”  
“Yeah, got them in my pocket. Where’d you get that little trolley?”  
“It’s Mrs Hudson’s.”  
“Ha, of course.”  
“I found my hatchet.”  
“Oh god.”  
“It’s only a little one, see? I’d be careful.”  
“You’ll keep it sharpened?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“Gloves and safety glasses?”  
“If you insist.”  
“Of course I insist. Where do you plan to do your chopping?”  
“Empty bedroom, I suppose.”  
“Oh, all right then. Hatchet. On probation. You chop one unsuitable thing, and you’ll be saying a tender goodbye to that hatchet.”  
“You do conjure such interesting mental images, John.”  
“Judging by the way you’ve been fondling the handle, it’d be a very tender goodbye indeed.”  
“Fondling. You and your exaggerations.”  
“I know a fondle when I see one, love. I suppose you know where you want to start?”  
“Yes, actually. There’s an old serving trolley behind Speedy’s that I’d like to hack to bits for starters, if you’ve no objections.”  
“Sounds perfect. Shall we?”  
"Let's. By the way, don't think I haven't noticed that you've got something in your coat pocket. Is it that rubbish little fan from your desk? I told you it was shit, but you would buy it anyway. Thank you for bringing it to me. I told you I'd persuade you, and you knew I would, didn't you, John?"  
"God. I'll never get used to you just pulling things out of the air like that."  
"Hardly out of the air, John."  
"Lucky for you I fancy running around town with a hatchet, hung off the arm of a maniac."  
"Who wouldn't?"


	170. Chapter 170

“Would you please get out of the skip, Sherlock? Please.”  
“It’s not going to be hauled away right now, John. It’s late.”  
“Why must you jump into skips, Sherlock?”  
“It varies. This one smells interesting.”  
“I wish you’d stop saying that.”  
“You keep asking-ah! I knew it!”  
“What? What is it?”  
“John, phone Lestrade! I’ve just found a hand!”  
“A hand?”  
“Yes, a hand.”  
“A severed hand?”  
“If it weren’t severed, I’d say I’d found a person or a corpse or perhaps an arm. But, yes, John, it’s severed. Please phone Lestrade. It was severed within the last twenty-four hours, I think, though of course you must have a look yourself. Oooh! God!”  
“What?!”  
“Don’t be alarmed, John. I’m only excited. I can’t wait for you to see this hand, John. It’s a perfect hand. It’s pristine. It might have been autoclaved or made from scratch in a hand factory. The cut is so perfect, John. They might have used a level. This is going to be brilliant, John. This is going to be just brilliant. Are you excited?”  
“Right, Sherlock, it may be pristine, but you’d better have your bloody gloves on.”  
“Of course I’ve got my gloves on, John. I’m not an idiot.”  
“No, you just jumped into a skip because it smelled interesting. Oh, and apparently to you ‘smells interesting’ means ‘smells like a severed hand.’ Rather makes me wonder what I smell of, as you’re always going on about it.”  
“You don’t smell like a severed hand, John. You smell a bit like a bakery in a forest. Should I have left it, then? Don’t be boring, John. And what the hell is taking you so long about phoning Lestrade?”  
“I’ve already done it! While you were doing your monologue thing. They’re on their way.”  
“Who’s on forensics?”  
“Knox.”  
“That’ll do. She’s fair. Monologue thing?”  
“Don’t pretend you don’t know you do that.”  
“I recite monologues?”  
“I think I’d use the word proclaim. Proclaim about covers it.”  
“I’d say I’ve known you to utter a proclamation or two yourself, John.”  
“You do it like no one else, love. You’re like a very pompous klaxon.”  
“You and your compliments, John.”

…

“You are brilliant.”  
“We’re brilliant.”  
“God yes, we’re brilliant.”  
“I can hardly stand it sometimes, it’s so- oh fuck!”  
“What? What is it?”  
“We’ve left Mrs. Hudson’s trolley in the alley where I found the hand. And my hatchet. Fuck. Do you think they’re still there? How long has it been?”  
“Couple of days. Could still be there. Let’s go back and check. Might have been taken as evidence when the police came. Bit awkward that.”  
“Ha, yes. Bit awkward. Could be.”  
“Or might have been hauled away with-”  
“Oh do shut up, John. If I’ve got a good reason to go into a skip, I’m going in.”  
“Talking of that, as soon as we get back to the flat, we are binning your clothes, and you are having the shower of your life. Two of them, if need be.”  
“I expect you’ll be overseeing the operation very carefully? Making sure my ablutions meet your standards?”  
“Well, of course.”  
“All right then. I can manage a record-setting shower, if you’re around for support.”  
"That's the spirit, love. Anything can be accomplished with team work."  
"We're brilliant."  
"God yes."

…

Sure I can't take you for a drink?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

With respect Lestrade, that'd be rather a punishment than an appropriate expression of gratitude.  
-SH

 

I'll have to send you a bottle of something, then. Any preferences or will anything ridiculously expensive do?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

No need.  
-SH

 

Well, thanks again, anyway.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

You're welcome  
-SH

 

Sorry, I'm what?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Not funny, among other things.  
-SH

 

For a moment there, I thought you'd come over all polite.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

That'll be John's influence, I reckon.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Yes, he's quite rubbed off on me  
-SH

 

That double entendre was unintentional. If you acknowledge it, I'll never speak to you again.  
-SH

 

You've promised me that so many times.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

And yet I always take pity on you.  
-SH


	171. Chapter 171

“Another downside to jumping into skips.”  
“Shut up, John. You’re ruining it.”  
“How’s the temperature?”  
“Very nice.”  
“Are you sure? You’re really flushed.”  
“It’s nearly scalding, but I like it that way.”  
“Is it helping your shoulder?”  
“It’s helping all over. My shoulder isn’t worse than any of the rest of me.”  
“Remember how it’s all right that being stabbed has affected you?”  
“That was a long time ago. I’ll be fine in a bit. Just trying to relax. Which is difficult with you in here sniffing at me. Make yourself useful or quiet or go away.”  
“You’re one to talk of sniffing.”  
“Figure of speech.”  
“Poetry, you mean?”  
“Get out.”  
“Make me.”  
“Would do if I weren’t so sore.”  
“Ha. I’d like to see you try.”  
“Get me a cup of tea or something. Stop gloating. It’s unbecoming.”  
“For a man who hates irony so much, you make loads of ironic remarks, love.”  
“Get out, John. You’re infuriating.”  
“Yeah, you look really furious.”  
“It’s a boneless, idle, sort of fury. I could shoot you, if you like, though. I think I’ve the strength for that. Fetch my revolver.”  
“Won’t that ruin your lovely bath?”  
“If you were inconsiderate enough to bleed into the water, I suppose it could.”  
“Nah, I’ve got more refinement than that. I wouldn’t bleed out into your bath. I respect the tub.”  
“Good. I don’t like to think I may have taken up with some one who’s got horrible manners.”  
“Imagine that. Bloody nightmare, it’d be.”  
“Indeed.”

…

“Sherlock, for you own safety, best lean back a bit because I’m about to punch that cocked eyebrow right off your stupid head!”  
“Such violence.”  
“It’s four am, Sherlock. I've got twelve hours sleep in three days because of running round after the skip hand guy. I'm exhausted. What do you want?”  
“I’m bored, John! You and your bodily functions. Sleeping. So dull.”  
“Right, well as you’re just as human as I am, you need to sleep, too. So sod off and go to sleep, Sherlock!”  
“I can’t sleep when I’m in this state, John. You know that. Anyway, you’ve had five hours of sleep already today. That’s enough for a man of your age, habits, and-"  
“Okay, you don’t need to tell me how little sleep I need. What do you want from me? Why’ve I got to get up because you want to get up? Can’t you entertain yourself without me for a bit?”  
“Don’t be boring.”  
“I’m going to be very boring, actually, because I’m going to lie here until at least seven, whether you let me sleep or not.”  
“How can you just lie there when we could be doing things?”  
“No, we couldn’t. Four am doesn’t have any things. It’s sleeping time, the world over. Nothing happens at four am. That’s why we’ve all decided to sleep.”  
“Our dozen charming farmer children would have something to say about that. They’re all up by now, I’m sure. Preparing to do the milking.”  
“Well, you’re welcome to do the milking with our dozen- hang on. Dozen?”  
“Yes, a dozen, John. Six of your invention and six of my invention. Fair’s fair.”  
“Our farm must be doing very well, if we can afford a dozen children.”  
“We may have been over-optimistic in our farm and family planning. It’s a good job they’re all of them so very charming.”  
“Tell you what, love. You let me have a lie-in until eight, and in the morning, I’ll do anything you like. Even have a mad conversation about our charming dairy cows.”  
“You almost always do anything I like. Can’t think why you’re being so obstinate now.”  
“Really? That’s odd because I’ve been telling you since you bounced me awake with that look on your face. I’m sleeping! Go away!”  
“Fine, fine. No need to shout. I suppose we can manage the milking without you.”

…

“Well, well, well. Can’t say I’m exactly surprised by this. Even geniuses have bodily functions, right Sherlock?”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“So sleep is only boring when it’s what you’re meant to be doing. Much more interesting at ten am than four am, is it?”  
“Do shut up, John.”  
“I hope you at least got the imaginary milking done.”  
“If you’re going to blather like a fool, come over here for it, so I can make a pillow of you.”  
“All right then.”  
“Mmm, that’s better. You do make a nice pillow, John.”  
“High praise.”  
“Well you know you must be good for something, as I allow you to stay here.”  
“And I fiddle with your hair.”  
“Right you are! I’d forgotten for a moment. Remind me how that goes? Oh perfect, John. Lovely. I really must keep you, then, if you can make yourself this useful.”  
“Glad to hear it, love. You have your rest, and I’ll make up my list of demands.”  
“Mmm, I’m not listening to you at all, but I rather have the impression that you’re threatening me. No matter. You can do whatever you like to me as long as you keep doing that to my hair.”  
“Lucky for you, I’m too scrupulous to press my advantage.”  
“You’re not; you press it when it suits you. But I know you well enough to do a bit of pressing in return, so I believe it evens out.”  
“What sort of pressing? Witch pressing?”  
“Ha, well, yes, that too, but John! Who told you to stop? Never stop. That’s better. Remember my experiments in how you best like to be touched? Worlds of useful data there, John. Worlds.”  
“Oh god.”  
“Don’t worry, you very much enjoy it when I assert my influence. You’re thinking of stopping, so you can blackmail me into detailing exactly what I mean by that. Won’t work, John, but fiddle me into a nice nap, and I’ll give you a couple of hints when I wake up.”


	172. Chapter 172

"What are you doing here?"  
"Fine thanks. You?"  
"Very amusing, Lestrade. Have you got a good reason for being in my flat uninvited, or will you be off now?"  
"All right then. I'm getting to it."  
"Does it pertain to that parcel?"  
"It does, actually. We've got you a token of our gratitude."  
"Not necessary, thank you."  
"You don't even know what it is."  
"Forgive me for saying so, but I wasn't exactly thrilled with your last token of gratitude."  
"Our last token? Hang on, are you still upset about the hat? That was three years ago, and it was just a bit of fun, wasn’t it?"  
"Of course I was never upset about the hat, but I was more, ah, embarrassed than flattered to be used for your mascot. Oh and then discarded shortly thereafter when it was decided that my assistance was a liability. Gratitude indeed."  
"Oh."  
"Mmm, yes. My humanity seems to come as such a surprise to nearly everyone I know. Can't think why."  
"Right well this was under John's advice. I'll just leave it here, yeah?"  
"If you insist."  
"If you don't like it, you can chuck it in the bin."  
"Thank you. Generous of you."  
"Thanks again."  
"I hope you can find your way out. Bit busy at the moment."  
"Right. Well. See you around the Yard, then."  
"Yes, I expect you will."

...

"Oh, hullo. I didn't notice this when I got in. Lestrade been round, then?"  
"Yes."  
"You haven't opened your present."  
"Excellent deduction, John. Really well-spotted."  
"Don't you want it?"  
"Not particularly."  
"Greg asked me what you'd like, and I had a few recommendations. Hopefully we managed to hit the mark."  
"Leave it there on the table, then. I'll have a look later."  
"Shall I open it for you?"  
"If you like."  
"Budge up, love."  
"You don't have to open it right under my nose, John."  
"I just want to be sure you see it. Oh, I think I know what it is."  
"I presume the options are limited."  
"I did vouch for you to get it for you, so use it wisely and at least pretend you're pleased with it."  
"It's my hatchet."  
"Oh is it yours? I thought it was a new one."  
"No, this is mine. I recognise the scratches on the handle."  
"Ha, of course you do. Not much of a present. Giving you your own stuff back."  
"He doesn't usually. If I leave things behind. Says, well he did say that I need to take more care not to contaminate the crime scene. He said he needed to hold onto things in case they became relevant."  
"You never leave things behind at crime scenes."  
"I've stopped, for the most part. I wasn't getting them back."  
"That's nice, then. Got your hatchet back. Oh, maybe they've got Mrs Hudson's little trolley."  
"No matter, I've already got her a new one. That one had a crooked wheel anyway."  
"Oh good. Hungry?"  
"Not at the moment, but I'll take a cup of tea, if you're making it."  
"I’ll put the kettle on."

...

Thank you for the present.  
-SH

 

You're welcome. Glad you like it.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

It is my property, so it stands to reason I'd like it.  
-SH

 

Still. Thank you.  
-SH

...

“Sherlock Holmes here.”  
“Yeah, it’s me.”  
“I know.”  
“I should’ve said before I’m sorry about the hat.”  
“Like you said, Greg, it was three years ago.”  
“I shouldn’t have let them make a joke of you. You’re better than the whole lot of us put together. You’re not a joke.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“I, er, I suppose I just wanted you to know I think so.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I always thought so.”  
“Yes, Greg, I understand what you’re getting at.”  
“So will you let me buy you a drink then?”  
“Erm, no. I hate pubs. But thank you for the hatchet.”  
“You’re welcome.”


	173. Chapter 173

“Sherlock, have you seen my charger? It’s not plugged in on the desk.”  
“I’m using it.”  
“Well, my phone is dead. I need to take it with me to work.”  
“My phone’s about to die. I’m using it.”  
“What’s wrong with your charger?”  
“Broken.”  
“You broke it?”  
“Does it matter?”  
“I need mine back. I’ve got to take it in to work with me.”  
“Yes, so you said. If you take it, I’ll be completely without a phone all day. You’ll have the land line in your office.”  
“Unless you leave the flat and buy another charger.”  
“Busy.”  
“Can’t you think and shop at the same time?”  
“No.”  
“What happens when you try? Do you fall over?”  
“Sorry, John. I win.”  
“How’s that exactly?”  
“Well, it takes you nine minutes to walk to the train station, if you don't stop for a coffee or a newspaper and the traffic is light at the zebra crossing. You've only got nine and a half minutes until your train leaves. If you miss your train, you’ll be late, which you hate, and you were late last week. You’re not going to take the charger because we haven’t actually agreed on who should get it, and you’re too polite to just take it when I’ve already said I’m using it. So I win. Or rather, you surrender. Not as much fun, but acceptable.”  
“Are you factoring in my urge to prove you wrong every time you predict me like I’m the outcome to a football match?”  
“I’ve never predicted the outcome to a football match in my life.”  
“Well, I’m not going to bother with convincing you I deserve it; I’m just going to take it. And I’m going to get a cab. See you later, Sherlock.”  
“How am I supposed to communicate with the outside world?”  
“You’ll think of something. Anyway, you hate the outside world.”  
“What if there’s an emergency?”  
“Then you’ll beat it to death with a punchbowl or spear it with your harpoon. Or chop it to bits with your hatchet. That’ll be fun, right love? You haven’t chopped anything yet.”  
“Heartless. Not all emergencies are choppable, John.”  
“No? Maybe while I’m at work, you can come up with some contingency plans for unchoppable situations. Anyway, I’m off.”  
“Good riddance.”

...

To: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subj:

John,  
I suppose you’ve no reason to check this address while at work, so I’ve helped myself to your printer to be sure you’ll see my message. Look what you've reduced me to, John. Sending an email. Using a printer. You should be ashamed. I miss my phone. 

[page one of one]

 

To: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
re:

How did you do that?

 

To: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
From: To: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
re:re:

Do what?

 

To: To: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
re:re:re:

How did you print an email on the printer in my office?

 

To: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
re:re:re:re

I could tell you, but it'd only bore us both, and I'm already bored. What are you doing?

 

To: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
re:re:re:re:re

Your typing is really abysmal. You should take lessons. How can it take you so long to reply?

 

To: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
re:re:re:re:re:re

Sorry love. Don’t have much time for chatting right now. Doctoring to do. See you tonight.

 

To: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
re:re:re:re:re:re:re

All right then. I’ll put all my chatter in one message and send it to you when I’m finished chattering.

 

To: SH  
From: Dr John Watson  
re:re:re:re:re:re:re

Greatest mind in Britain does it again. Can’t wait, love.


	174. Chapter 174

To: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
From: sh@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subj: chatter

I don’t mean to pester you while you work, John. I only want to annoy you to the extent that you enjoy it. And perhaps a bit more than that, provided I’m enjoying it. But then I’m always enjoying it. You do pull such excellent faces, John. I miss you. Isn’t that irritating? It’s only been a few hours since I saw you last (186 minutes at time of writing this, if you were wondering). But here we are. I miss you. You’ve pervaded me at least as deeply as I’ve pervaded you, my John. Perhaps more so. It’s difficult to quantify.

I suppose you know I miss you. You always know what I’m feeling, I think. You can read me better than I can read you. When did that happen? Witch. You don’t seem mysterious, but you are. You’ve got your mystery hidden under wool and chambray (that blonde hair and those great big eyes are very much to your advantage as well)(in multiple contexts) and ordinary people just overlook it.

I could go on. I’m always about to go on, John. I have to stop myself very, very often. You know that, don’t you? You know everything important. Well, relatively speaking. Perhaps I should go on, though. You say such lovely things to me, and I wish I could answer. Instead I pretend to sneer and hope you understand me. You do (obviously), but I want to have it out in the open the way you do. I hope I manage to convey my feelings, even though I am not as naturally elegant as you are. I shall keep practising.

Should I tell you more often that I love you? That doesn’t seem quite right somehow. Bit feeble? You’ll know what I mean; you hardly say it either. Ah, well, we don’t need it. Not clever enough for us, is it, John? We’re showoffs; it’s what we do. You show off, too, don’t you? You’d deny it, I suppose (I can predict you that well, at least), but you do. Mostly to do with me, I’ve noticed. You’re rather proud of me, aren’t you John? Is it because I’m so tall?

Me and your looks. Two of your points of pride. Well-warranted, of course. I’m a proper genius, and you’re immoderately handsome. Right before I died, you’d bought this blue suit that you wore to the trial and whatever other nonsense we got up to (aside from the cases, of course. Cases are never nonsense). God. John Watson in that blue suit (for your records, it renders your eyes, your shoulders, and your arse all very distracting). I could not stop staring. Thought you’d say something; I’m sure you noticed. I thought lots about kissing you. It really annoyed me. I was rather hoping my wanting-to-kiss-John feelings would evaporate eventually (hope you don’t mind me saying). I wanted things to be simple. Stupid of me. Limiting. I missed important things because I wouldn’t look properly (wouldn’t observe).

What happened to that suit, John? Do you still have it? We should have a really nice night out some time. The symphony? Would you like that? We could go and see Mr Spencer for tuxedos. Might be a bit awkward about the tie. He’s rather traditional. We could stop for a nightcap at Angelo’s (have I taken you there after closing? It's very different). I’d let you get me drunk. We like that.

I think I could be persuaded to literally worship you, John. Prayers, burnt offerings, the lot of it. What’s the line from that horrible play? ‘the god of my idolatry’? Something like that? I could very much see myself as high priest of the cult of John Watson.

Good lord, what nonsense I’m talking. Writing. You bring it out in me, you witch. Admit you have me under a spell, John. I won’t be cross. Of course you’d want to enchant me. Hmm, it seems I cannot curtail the nonsense. Perhaps I’d better leave it here.

Yes, I’ll go and get myself a new charger, then I won’t feel like you’re so inaccessible (silly, of course. I’d get at you wherever you were, as long as you wanted me). All that remains is the question of the sign off. I might write to you more often, if I could sort that to my own satisfaction.

Yours,  
Sherlock (has its advantages, but it’s identical to yours. What am I, if not original?)

With love,  
Sherlock (no. Something your aunt writes in a birthday card)

Love,  
Sherlock (something your mum writes in a birthday card)

Sherlock  
x (something Molly Hooper writes in a birthday card)

Ever yours,  
Sherlock (improving but not just right)

Sherlock (just my name will have to do at present; I know you’ll say it’s sufficient)

PS  
Oh fuck me, I’ve just realised this is a love letter. Bother. Ah, well. I’ll send it anyway.


	175. Chapter 175

“Good god, John. Your mouth!”  
“Thank you and you’re welcome.”  
“No, I mean it’s filthy. Where did you learn to talk like that? You make me blush.”  
“Ha, do I? I don’t even really remember what I said.”  
“I’d repeat it back to you, but I don’t think I could do your delivery justice.”  
“You were so eloquent in your letter that I was feeling a bit outdone.”  
“Consider me put in my place.”  
“Not that I mean to discourage you proclaiming your feelings, love.”  
“Like a very pompous klaxxon.”  
“Not much like a klaxxon this time. Really Sherlock, that was just lovely. It made me come over all tender on the train on my way home.”  
“Dear me.”  
“I know. I’m not used to being so, erm, adored. I’ve never had a letter like that before.”  
“No? Seems like you’d have a biscuit tin of sentiment stashed somewhere.”  
“Biscuit tin of sentiment?”  
“Some cache of infatuated missives from former lovers.”  
“Dnno that I’ve ever been with some one who was the type to write infatuated missives.”  
“I’m not the type.”  
“But you’d do anything for me.”  
“True.”

...

"Oh, what's that look?"  
"Now you really do have me under a spell, don't you, you nature-changer?"  
"Of course I do. What's got you so enchanted so early this morning, love?"  
"I'm dreaming your dreams, John."  
"Sorry?"  
"I dreamt you were my violin."  
"Ahhhh. And how did you like that?"  
"Bit odd. It seemed presumptuous to just play you, and I didn't know how to ask for permission. I plucked G, but even that felt rather daring."  
"Well, you have my unlimited permission to play or pluck me as you choose."  
"Thank you, John."  
"Just remember that my pegs are ticklish."  
"Ha, yes. I will remember. Thank you."

...

“Don’t touch that!”  
“I’m hungry. Can’t I have a biscuit?”  
“They’re not biscuits. ”  
“Ooh, are you keeping specimens in a biscuit tin? That’s a bit horrible.”  
“They’re not specimens.”  
“Explosives?”  
“No, Molly. It’s personal. Stop guessing.”  
“If it’s personal, why are you keeping it in the kitchen, hidden in a biscuit tin?”  
“Because it’s my flat, and I’ll keep my biscuit tin full of personal items wherever I like.”  
“Seems like maybe you want it to be discovered.”  
“Molly, have the imagination to realise that if I did plant biscuit tins full of personal items around my flat for discovery, the efforts might not be directed at you.”  
“Oh, is it for John?”  
“It’s personal!”  
“Really, I just wanted a biscuit.”  
“Here!”  
“You’ve had those in your pocket this whole time?!”  
“You were too absorbed in ferreting out my secrets to give me an opening to offer them to you.”  
“Suddenly you wait for openings. Why’ve you got biscuits in your pocket? Or is it personal?”  
“In anticipation of this moment, Molly.”


	176. Chapter 176

The Hand in the Skip

Sherlock Holmes here. As John can’t be bothered to update with anything approaching regularity, I’ve decided to help myself to his blog again and post a write-up of one of my recent cases. If you’re at all attuned to current events--I would hope you are, as you read this blog--you’ve probably heard about this. Or at least heard the utter hash the press have made of a fascinating case. Fortunately here’s me to tell you what actually happened with the serial killer John has named The Skip Hand Guy. Pithy.

[Edited]

John Watson here. Not two minutes after this went up, we got a very nice phone call from our friends at the Met, asking if we could please stop giving murder lessons. I tried to alter Sherlock’s write up enough to post it (such tender, painstaking detail), but by the time it was considered acceptable, it was nothing but redaction marks and insults. So I’ve preserved the insults from Sherlock’s introduction for your entertainment.

Comments (28)

Sherlock Holmes:  
This is just offensive.

 

John Watson:  
Copycats, remember?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I loathe copycats.

 

John Watson:  
That’s one good reason not to spawn any.

 

G Lestrade:  
Brilliant job on this one, gents. Really excellent. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, Greg, so you've said. Thank you. 

 

Jacob Sowersby:  
Wow, I wish you could tell us about it! Sounds fantastic!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It was.

 

John Watson:  
Yeah, you were more astounding than usual, Sherlock.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, John. That’s saying something.

 

Molly Hooper:  
Oh, is this why you’ve been more insufferable than usual lately?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.

 

Harry Watson:  
Ha! More insufferable than usual really is saying something! I knew I liked this Molly person. Why’ve we not met yet, Molly?

 

Molly Hooper:  
I think we met at John’s birthday party, actually. We didn’t get to chat much, though. Sherlock had my ear most of the night.

 

John Watson:  
Wrong tree, Harry.

 

Molly Hooper:  
Mind your own business, John.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
John does enjoy interfering with other people’s fun.

 

John Watson:  
Me?!

 

Molly Hooper:  
Yes, I think we can all agree on that.

 

Harry Watson:  
Seconded.

 

John Watson:  
Right then. I’ll play along. Comments disabled.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Oh John, don’t be petty.

 

John Watson:  
How are you doing that?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Please. Trivially easy.

 

John Watson:  
I’ll just have to stop you manually, then.

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’d like to see you try.

 

John Watson:  
Well, you’re about to.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I look forward to it. With relish.


	177. Chapter 177

"Elbow patches, John?"  
"So?"  
"Are you really that hard on your jumper elbows?"  
"No, I'm not, but you are. You stretch them out, you lanky thing. That's not why I bought this, though. I just like the elbow patches."  
"What's next? One of those diamond patterned jumpers in garish blue and yellow like your uncle wears to Easter lunch?"  
"That was very specific."  
"Yes, I paint a vivid picture."  
"I'd noticed. Fair aisle and now argyle. What have you got against patterns?"  
"I like you in stripes."  
"Do you?"  
"Very much."  
"What about spots?"  
"A spotted jumper? No, I don't think I approve of that at all."  
"I don't think I've ever seen a spotted jumper. I mean a spotted shirt or tie."  
"Oh, yes, I quite like your spotted ties. That's why I put them at the front of your tie index."  
"Are you still indexing my ties?"  
"Yes, every other week. How is that you don't notice?"  
"Just thick, I suppose."  
"At least you admit it."

…

“Are you all right, John? You look a bit unsettled.”  
“You’re doing it on purpose.”  
“Am I unsettling you?”  
“You know you are.”  
“My apologies, John. Shall I play more quietly?”  
“At least stop staring at me like a cat watching a mousehole. Look out the window like normal.”  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat watch a mousehole.”  
“Use your imagination.”  
“Little less noise, please, John. I want to focus on my Bach. Got to keep in practise. Apparently important performances are just going to be sneaking up on me, from now on.”  
“Bastard.”  
“I thought you liked Partita No. One, John.”  
“I do. It’s marvelous.”  
“I know. So hush and enjoy it.”

...

“My, my, my, isn’t this a reversal? Addressing your freckle portfolio, I suppose. I thought you found kitchen nudity declasse?”  
“When have I ever said that?”  
“You’ve thought it.”  
“Well you’ve done something with my dressing gown. Where is it?”  
“Tut, tut, John. Can’t you look after your things a bit better?”  
“Are you denying that you took it?”  
“No, of course not.”  
“Can I have it back?”  
“Certainly, if you can find it.”  
“I suppose I’ll just get dressed then.”  
“If you really considered that a palatable option, you’d have done it before you came out to ask me about your dressing gown.”  
“Remember what I said about my reaction to being predicted?”  
“I can’t help predicting you, John; it’s what I do. Anyway, you’re obviously enjoying showing off.”  
“Well, I am enjoying the way you’re looking at me.”  
“Yes, didn’t I say?”  
“Well, I don’t fancy cooking breakfast naked, so you can turn up my dressing gown, or you can make breakfast.”  
“Small price to pay.”  
“You’re never going to give it back?”  
“Mmm, I haven’t decided yet. Let’s see how breakfast goes.”  
“Ha, I’m trying to be annoyed about this.”  
“But you just can’t somehow.”  
“Are you going to hide my other clothes, as well, love?”  
“Let’s see how breakfast goes.”


	178. Chapter 178

“Oh hullo. These aren’t biscuits, are they, love?”  
“No.”  
“What are they?”  
“Have a look.”  
“Is this a biscuit tin full of sentiment?”  
“Take a look in the tin, John.”  
“How long have you been doing this?”  
“Since our conversation.”  
“But that was only a week and a half ago.”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, there’re two dozen notes here.”  
“Twenty-seven, actually.”  
“How did you do that so quickly?”  
“Most of them don’t say much. It’s an ongoing enterprise.”  
“May I look at them?”  
“Of course. That is the point, I believe. If my impressions of such undertakings are correct.”  
“Ooh, they must be very tender indeed. I’m looking forward to this.”  
“Shut up, John.”

...

John,  
You touch my elbow every single time you introduce me as your husband. Did you know?  
S

 

John,  
You’ve fallen asleep on my left arm. Using you for a writing desk. Please excuse my handwriting; I’m finding the pins and needles rather distracting.  
S 

 

John,  
Asked you to text Mycroft for me earlier today. Have just checked my phone to see you called him a ‘flatulent busybody’ which was not in the text I dictated to you. I appreciate your initiative.  
S 

 

John,  
You kissed my right ear this morning. It is now 20:17 and it still tickles. You need a shave.  
S

 

John,  
Followed you to work today to see if you’d notice. Am in disguise, though. One of your jumpers.  
S

 

John,  
You counted thirteen mugs in the sink and will not stop grumbling about it. Bit irritating. Maybe I’ll smash the extra three.  
S

 

John,  
You’re asleep in your chair, and your mouth is wide open. I want to put my finger in it.  
S

 

John,  
Still in bed and you think I’m asleep. Listening to you sing while you do last night’s dishes. Think I’ll lie here until you’ve done singing. It’ll be a good day today. I always know it will be when you sing before breakfast.  
S 

 

John,  
It is very noisy and very dull and very warm, and I am more than ready to adjourn to the moon, should that be agreeable to you.  
S 

...

“You mad thing.”  
“You’re pleased?”  
“Of course I’m pleased. God. Sherlock. I don’t know what to say.”  
“You may shut up, if you like.”  
“Arse.”  
“Idiot.”  
“May I put some notes in as well?”  
“If you like. But won’t they get lost in mine?”  
“I suppose you’ll just have to deduce which ones are yours and which ones are mine.”  
“So will you, John.”  
“Right, I will, yes. But I’m getting better at deducing.”  
“It’s quite a long scale.”  
"I'll finish with the rest later, shall I?"  
"I'm going to keep writing them, John. You don't have to ration what you already have."  
"Thank you, love. It's just. I'm getting a bit."  
"Right. Of course."  
"Yeah."


	179. Chapter 179

Can’t settle. Trying not to let John see, but he’s watching me. He’s pretending not to. Doing my trick with the newspaper, actually (not very well; he hasn’t turned any pages since he sat down). I’m trying to pace without looking like I’m pacing. It’s not working; John can see I’m in a mood. I’m exhausted, actually. No real reason. Just haven’t slept. My eyes are heavy and there’s a pressure on my forehead, just behind my eyebrows (is there a word for that feeling, I wonder?).

I didn’t sleep last night either. Laid next to John until he was asleep, then pushed my head under the back of his pyjama top (which sometimes helps quite a lot) but it was not effective. Still, I stayed that way until I got a crick in my neck. Came out to the sitting room so I could fidget without disturbing him. Have been floating round the sitting room like a fish in a bowl since then. Haven’t eaten either, which may be worrying John more than the insomnia (not quite sure he knows about the insomnia, now I think of it). John tries not to ask me to eat (pointless, he knows). He’s close now, though. Haven’t eaten since yesterday breakfast. The insomnia and lack of appetite tend to coincide. John would say I can’t sleep because I haven’t eaten.

“Tea, love?” John offers suddenly. Trying to sound careless. Bless him for not fussing openly. It’d certainly lead to an argument I don’t presently have the energy for. Or silent sulking on both our parts. I’ve waited too long to reply.

“Fine.” Can’t manage more than that politely. The pressure in my head is turning to throbbing. John pops out of his chair and into the kitchen at once. There’s a little more bustle than putting the kettle on warrants. He’s fixing me something to eat. Suppose we’ll be having that row afterall. “Not hungry,” I call. May as well get it going now.

“So self-centred,” he calls back. “I’m the one that’s hungry.”

“Who’s hungry, John. Are pronouns really so difficult?” He chuckles. Annoying, which is good. It was irritating me that he was being so pleasant. Lie down on the couch, cover my face with the crook of my right arm. Use my left to tap Partita No. One on the side of the sofa. Wonder if John recognises it. He seems to pause. Continue tapping and try to decide if it’s a listening pause or some other sort of pause. He taps back, and I laugh aloud. John laughs too. I roll over onto my face and listen to the scraping and rustling sounds that mean John is making tea and toast. It seems only a moment later that John comes back into the room.  
I roll over and sit up. John has a cup of tea in each hand and two slices of toast with marmalade held in his teeth. He looks rather puppyish. Would he enjoy hearing that? Should I put it in the biscuit tin? He hands me my cup. We catch eyes, and I raise an eyebrow and look pointedly at the toast.

John sits and takes the toast out of his mouth. He chews for a moment and says, “Mmm, bit too much butter.” I roll my eyes. “Not everything is about you,” John says, grinning and taking another bite of his toast. I can smell the butter. I sip my tea and watch John dawdle over his toast. When he’s finished (and after he’s licked his fingers; not too tired to enjoy the sight of John’s tongue) he yawns and shuts his eyes for a moment before saying, “Well, two in the morning does not sit as well as it used to.” Look down at my watch, surprised. One fifty-six. Think of correcting him. Too lethargic to bother. “Will you come to bed?”

“Not tired.”

“All right then. Will you put me to bed?”

“Put you to bed?”

“Just come and sit with me for a bit. I don’t like to go without you.”

“All right.”

“I’ll just clean my teeth. Will you get the biscuit tin? I want you to read me some sentiment.”John gets up and goes into the bathroom without waiting for me to answer. I get the tin from the kitchen, go into the bedroom and lie down on my side of the bed. John comes in a minute later, already pulling his jumper over his head. He undresses and gets into bed next to me. I sit up and lean back against my pillows. I raise my arm and look at John. He slides over to accept my invitation and leans against my side. I prise the lid off the tin (smells of ginger and sugar inside) and pull out a folded slip of paper. Unfold it to see John’s handwriting. Read it aloud anyway,

“‘Hullo love,  
I could compose a monograph on the subject of that freckle on your throat. You know the one I mean. Since I am a normal person, I think instead I’ll go see if I can get my leg over.  
Yours,  
John’”

John laughs (I almost do as well, but thinking of it makes my head ache). “Nice choice, love. And I did, by the way. If you were wondering.”

I smile, “Yes, I think I remember that.”

“What about one of yours then?”

“As you like, John.” I reach into the tin, and pull out a handful.

“‘John,  
I can’t stop myself smiling at your impression of me. Pity. I think it’d be more fun for both of us if I could believably pretend to hate it.  
S

John,  
You just came out of the bathroom and announced 'that piss was aces.'  
S

John,  
Listening to you slowly lose patience while attempting to order food on the phone. Fighting laughter.  
S’”

John laughs heartily at all three notes. “You’re not going to get to sleep this way, John,” I tell him. “All this unrestful chortling.”

John yawns for a long moment (I actually hear his jaw crack) before he replies, “You’re the expert are you?” He shuts his eyes and slumps against me.

I squeeze his shoulder and say, “That’s generally my role no matter where I happen to be or what I’m doing.”

John giggles, “Sorry love, but I’m obviously much better at sleeping than you are.”

“Well you spend an undue amount of your time practising,” I say.

John shakes his head, still giggling. His hair tickles my jaw. “Get the light, will you, love?” he says with another huge yawn.

I comply before I say, “I know what you’re doing, John.”

“Do you?” John mumbles. “Clever you.”

“Not that you even bother to hide it when you’re attempting to manipulate me.” I stroke his arm.

John giggles again, “We don’t stand on ceremony around here, do we?”

“Not in that regard.”

“We’re both open connivers, aren’t we, love?”

I kiss the top of his head, feeling mysteriously sad. “Good night, John.”

“Flatten out, love. I’m going to make a pillow of you.” I obey, reaching for John’s pillow as I recline, but he tosses it off the bed when I hand it to him. “No thanks. Pretty pathetic substitute.” And he settles against me as if I really were a pillow and not a twitchy collection of bony limbs. “G’night Sherlock.” In answer, I only give him a little squeeze. He sighs. Lovely. I stroke his hair and try not to jiggle my foot and shake the bed. I shut my eyes, but holding them closed makes my headache worse, so open them again. Feel wistful as John’s breathing deepens. He’s drifting away from me. Soon he’ll be asleep, and I’ll be on my own again. Watching the dark and waiting for John to come back to me.


	180. Chapter 180

“Thank you, John. Toast and eggs are a panacea.”  
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”  
“Consider me told.”  
“Want to try and sleep again?”  
“In a bit. For now, I think I’ll just enjoy your company.”  
“Want to hear something from the biscuit tin?”  
“Of course.”

…

Hullo love,  
I think about your eyes, too. Did you know? You’ve got glass eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes sort of silvery clear. I know that sounds like utter poetic nonsense, but this is a fucking love letter, isn’t it?  
Yours,  
John

…

“You do have a way with words, John.”  
“Cheers, love. You bring it out in me.”  
“That’s me. Your whetstone. Bit more?”  
“All right, then.”

…

Hullo love,  
You’ve got your face glued to your microscope, but you’ve been humming that piece you composed for me. Hmmm.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
You’re asleep on the sofa, and you’ve got one arm and one leg hanging completely off it. How do you do that? What other strange attitudes could you sleep in? Is this what the spirit of scientific inquiry feels like?  
Yours,  
John

…

“Another instance of my positive influence.”  
“Ha, yeah. That’s you, all right. Positive influence. Any more, love?”  
“Not just at the moment, if you don’t mind, John. I think I’ll lie down.”  
“Good, good. Glad to hear it. Will you adopt a strange attitude?”  
“Anything to please you, John. Shall I sleep upside down?"  
"That'll do for starters. I'll think of a few more while you practise that one."  
"I shall be very interested to hear them."  
"To enact them, you mean."  
"Yes, of course. Silly of me."  
"I think I can overlook it this time."  
"Generous of you, John."  
"Well, I'm rather fond of you."

…

"Use a spoon, you pervert."  
"I'm only stirring, John. The fork works."  
"Listen to yourself."  
"All the spoons are dirty."  
"Wash one."  
"Be realistic, John."  
"You're offending the tea, Sherlock. And the mug. And me. Oh, and now you're just going to let it sit there? Just in, all pointy and tine-y?"  
"Yes, it's just going to sit there. The fork and the mug are going to get very well acquainted. And you're going to have to watch."  
"It'll bump against your mouth, you know. When you drink."  
"Small price to pay to annoy you, John."


	181. Chapter 181

"Erm Sherlock, did you just wipe the lipstick off my mug?"  
"It's my mug."  
"No, that's your mug. This one's mine. No milk, see?"  
"No, Molly, I meant that this is my flat so all the mugs here are my mugs."  
"Ooh, dear."  
"It's my property, Molly! I don't like it besmirched with cosmetics."  
"Besmirched?"  
"Dirtied, befouled, contaminated. Call it what you like."  
"By my lipstick?"  
"By anyone's lipstick."  
"Are you sure you want me here? I'm also sitting in your chair and leaning on your table."  
"Of course I want you here Molly, or you wouldn't be here."  
"Then shut up about my lipstick."  
"Fine. Touchy."

...

Have you been kissing my flat?  
-SH

 

Er what?  
~Molly~

 

My flat is all over lipstick marks. Per our earlier conversation, you're obviously to blame.  
-SH

 

Why're you asking, if you've already worked it all out, Mr Clever?  
~Molly~

 

'Mr Clever'? Taking a leaf from John's book?  
-SH

 

Is he the only one who's allowed to nickname you?  
~Molly~

 

Obviously. But that's more of an epithet than a nickname.  
-SH

 

Anyway, I'll thank you to keep your mouth to yourself, when you're in my flat, Molly Marie Hooper.  
-SH

 

How do you know my middle name?  
~Molly~

 

Don't you think that question is beneath you, Molly? It's on your badge.  
-SH

 

You steal my badge?!  
~Molly~

 

Don't be stupid, Molly. I've looked at it. Doesn't mean I've stolen it.  
-SH

 

So you absolutely haven't stolen it, then?  
~Molly~

 

No.  
-SH

 

Nor borrowed it?  
~Molly~

 

I don't remember.  
-SH

 

Liar!  
~Molly~

 

Well, you've got it back now, haven't you?  
-SH

 

DON'T NICK MY BADGE SHERLOCK! I could get sacked for that, you know!!!  
~Molly~

 

Fine, fine, I won't borrow it anymore. No need for all that punctuation.  
-SH

 

Good.  
~Molly~

 

Your parents shouldn't have called you Molly Marie, by the way. Both names are derived from Mary. It makes a pointless middle name even more redundant.  
-SH 

 

Been meaning to say.  
-SH

 

Thanks. I'll pass that along.  
~Molly~

 

Do.  
-SH

 

The best thing about you is that you're ridiculous in so many different ways.  
~Molly~

 

I'm not so desperate for compliments that I'll accept an insult in disguise.  
-SH

 

I really do mean it as a compliment. You're always interesting.  
~Molly~

 

I suppose I can call that a neutral remark and not take offense.  
-SH

 

Would you take offense at something I said to you?  
~Molly~

 

Of course, if it were offensive.  
-SH

 

I didn't know you care what I think  
~Molly~

 

Don't be stupid, Molly. If I didn't care what you think, I wouldn't bother speaking to you.  
-SH

 

At least not in a way that invited responses.  
-SH

 

That's almost sweet.  
~Molly~

 

Don't get carried away.  
-SH

 

I nearly told you you're my dearest friend. Glad I didn't, if that's the way you're going to respond.  
-SH

 

Really?   
~Molly~

 

Yes, of course. Hadn't you noticed?  
-SH

 

I don't like to assume with you.  
~Molly~

 

What about John?  
~Molly~

 

John is John.  
-SH

 

Right...  
~Molly~

 

John is my husband, if you need more of an explanation. Though that should have been obvious, in my estimation.  
-SH

 

So I'm right under John, then?  
~Molly~

 

That is not the way I would have phrased that.  
-SH

 

Oh god. Sorry. Didn't think. : /  
~Molly~

 

It's fine. What’s that bit at the end?  
-SH

 

It means I’m embarrassed.  
~Molly~

 

Couldn’t you have just said?  
-SH

 

I was too embarrassed.  
~Molly~

 

So how are your secret biscuits?  
~Molly~

 

I've never had any secret biscuits.  
-SH

 

You know what I mean.  
~Molly~

 

I don't know why you're asking.  
-SH

 

I like to hear about your weird little games.  
~Molly~

 

Well, you're not going to be hearing anything about this one.  
-SH

 

John'll tell me.  
~Molly~

 

No he won't. It's personal.  
-SH

 

I think you're a bit more rigid about that than John is.  
~Molly~

 

You really have no way of knowing if that’s true, do you?  
-SH

 

Because I don’t know what I don’t know?  
~Molly~

 

Obviously.  
-SH

 

Right, well. You’re bonkers, but a nice sort of bonkers.  
~Molly~

 

I’m bowled over by your generosity, Molly.  
-SH


	182. Chapter 182

“That’s beautiful.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“Really, really lovely, Sherlock. What is that? I’ve not heard you play that before.”  
“Just improvising.”  
“Your speciality.”  
“Mmm, indeed. Shall I continue?”  
“Yeah, go on.”  
“Are you all right?”  
“Fine, yeah, fine.”  
“You look a bit.”  
“I am a bit. Sometimes you look so lonely when you play.”  
“Do I?”  
“It makes me think of before you died. Sometimes you seemed so adrift. I’d feel a bit helpless, I suppose.”  
“Will you get the tin, John? Let’s hear something from the tin.”

…

Hullo love,  
I am so bloody proud of the fact that I’m the only person who ever makes you laugh. I want it carved on my tombstone.  
Yours,  
John

 

John,  
Was pleased to discover at lunch today that I still feel incredibly smug when strangers assume we are together. Yes, this lovely man is indeed attached to me. Thank you for noticing.  
S

 

John,  
I promised myself years ago that I would never reveal this, but I enjoy doing the shopping with you. Sometimes I bin the last of the milk, so you’ll drag me along to replace it. I suppose I pretend to hate it because you do such funny things to keep me entertained. Shame to give that up. Ah well.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
Pretending to take notes while we interview a client. Thinking about your mouth instead.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
This may be the best toast of my life. Well done, you.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
Stop acting like I’m any better at this than you are. Demonstrably untrue, as you would say. I can’t quite spit out half the things I want to say to you about how fantastic you are. It’s all right. We’ll be brilliant and stupid together. You can be the idiot genius, and I’ll be the genius idiot.  
Yours,  
John

…

“What sort of things can’t you spit out, my John?”  
“Ha, erm, let’s see. I love it when you call me your John.”  
“You find that difficult to say?”  
“I don’t like to interrupt. Usually you’ve attached it to a sentence I want to hear the end of.”  
“Mmm, indeed. What else have you been meaning to spit out, John?”  
“Ha mmm, I love that you pretend you don’t notice you make those innuendos.”  
“You’re only listing things I’m doing right now.”  
“Well you’re always doing something I love.”  
“Forgive me John, but that does not gel with my recollections.”  
“One little thing, at least.”  
“What was the smallest thing you’ve ever loved about me?”  
“That little point in the middle of your top lip.”  
“My philtrum.”  
“I love that you’re compulsively pedantic.”  
“I love that you’re compulsively sarcastic.”  
“I love that when I’m around you, I can be deliriously happy and in a towering rage at the same time.”  
“Now?”  
“Ha, no love. Not right now.”  
“When?”  
“Actually, I haven’t been in a towering rage in a long while.”  
“Yes, my good influence is softening your quickness of temper. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a towering rage with you, John.”  
“That’s because I’m an angel.”  
“Mmm, hardly. Though I do enjoy your, ah, little bouts of hot-blooded bluster, John. Always very stirring.”  
“Smug bastard.”  
“Genius idiot.”


	183. Chapter 183

"Good god, John! What is all that racket?"  
"Nothing. Sorry."  
"Just practising scaring the living daylights out of me, then?"  
"Got to get a bit of my own back, don't I?"  
"Stop being coy and tell me what you're shouting about."  
"Did Sherlock Holmes just tell me to stop being coy?"  
"I believe you heard me. I hope you don't intend to imply that I am coy, John."  
"Playfully mysterious?"  
"You imagine innuendo everywhere, John. If there were half as much intrigue in the world as you perceive, I would never be bored.”  
“That’s saying something.”  
“Mmm indeed. Now stop being coy and tell me what has you making all this noise, John.”  
“No.”  
“No?!”  
“Bit more intrigue in your life, Montresor.”  
“How generous you are, Fortunato.”

...

“Sherlock Holmes.”  
“John Watson.”  
“Do my eyes deceive me or is this candlelight I see?”  
“Is there something difficult to believe about that, John?”  
“Well, I’ve heard it’s romantic.”  
“Is it? It’s a bit stale in here, but it was too cold with the window open. The candles help.”  
“You don’t think it’s romantic, then?”  
“Hadn’t thought.”  
“Mmm, you’ve turned off the other lights.”  
“Couldn’t be bothered to put them on. Anyway, it’s not quite dark yet.”  
“Ah, right.”  
“I’d disabuse you of your mistake, John, but I am enjoying that little grin you’re wearing.”  
“Right. Well, shall I put the kettle on, love? Or would you rather I open a bottle of something?”  
“Actually after I lit the candles, I thought you might suggest wine. There’s a bottle breathing on the table. Pour me a glass?”  
“Ha, sure, love.”  
“So smug, John.”  
“I’m not smug, I’m pleased.”  
“Call it what you like.”

...

"Don't look like that."  
"John, perhaps you'd be kind enough to compile a list of the facial expressions I am allowed to wear when I dare to look in your direction. Or maybe you’d rather I didn’t turn my face toward you at all?”  
“Sometimes you look like you’re laughing at my thoughts.”  
“I thought you liked to make me laugh.”  
“Nobody likes to feel ridiculous. Especially for things they haven’t said or done yet.”  
“Are you considering doing or saying something ridiculous?”  
“Ridiculous? Not to my standards.”  
“Oh? And what have you got planned, my John?”  
“Nothing in particular at the moment. I just like to know my plans, ridiculous or not, will be met with an open mind.”  
“Oh, always John. I do like to hear what you think. Very useful to me. Even when it turns out to be rubbish, it’s generally entertaining.”  
“You really know how to flatter a bloke.”  
“I’ve too much respect for you to flatter you, John. Besides you don’t need it. Even your flaws are-”  
“Transcendent?”  
“How do you know about that? You do know, don’t you?”  
“Ha, you’re not the only snoop in the flat.”  
“Have you known all along?”  
“Yep, think so.”  
“You nosy, devious, little sneak.”  
“You love it.”  
“God yes.”

...

“John, you’ve got a new freckle.”  
“Have I?”  
“Mmm, on your throat.”  
“No wonder it escaped my notice. And does it look as appetising as the one on my elbow?”  
“More so.”  
“I thought you might say that. Something about your expression. Well, help yourself, if you like.”  
“Mmmm, generous of you, John.”  
“That was gentler than I was expecting. Bit ticklish.”  
“I didn’t want you to mistake my meaning, John.”  
“No? It’s pretty unambiguous, isn’t it? Scientific inquiry.”  
“Precisely. I’m glad we understand each other.”  
“Well, of course. Matched set.”


	184. Chapter 184

“All right, John?”  
“Nightmare. I tried to catch-talk to me about something. I can still see it.”  
“It’s all right, John. It’s over. Take my hand. I’m right here.”  
“Talk to me about something cheerful.”  
“Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we can have a look in the biscuit tin.”  
“Don’t let go my hand.”  
“I won’t. Come on.”

…

John,  
You’re cross with me right now. Writing this as a reminder to myself to find out what about, when I’ve a moment to devote to it, and correct it. Though I am enjoying being glared at.  
S

 

John,  
I saw that vulgar drawing in my pad. Very childish  
S

 

John,  
You’ve gone to sleep on the sofa with your hand down your trousers. Have taken a photo.  
S

...

“Can I see the photo?”  
“Of course.”  
“Ha, I look so pleased with myself.”  
“Well, it’s quite nice down there.”  
“Yes, I know. Is the tea brewed?”  
“One more minute, I think.”  
“Read a bit more.”  
“All right, then.”

…

John,  
You’ve had a bit much to drink, and you keep calling me Shhhhlock. Lovely.  
S

 

John,  
Don’t think I was too distracted to notice you pulled out a great handful of my hair. Bit more care next time, mmm?  
S

…

“I don’t remember that.”  
“Oh, then I suppose you were too distracted to notice.”  
“I suppose so.”  
“Is your tea too hot?”  
“I rather forgot I had it.”  
“Shall we try a different tack then? What about a walk? Fresh air?”  
“Fresh?”  
“Ha, well air, then. Cold air. Cool your overheated head.”  
“All right, love. That might do.”  
“Let’s get dressed.”

…

“Are you warm enough?”  
“Ha, yes, fine. You?”  
“Fine, of course. Will you take my arm, John?”  
“Thanks, love.”  
“May I offer you some refreshment?”  
“Ha, you brought a flask? Give us a nip, then. Thanks love.”  
“My pleasure. Nice night, isn’t it?”  
“Sherlock, you’re not alluding to the weather?”  
“Bite your tongue, John. Rather the company.”  
“Oh, I don’t know that I’m very nice company tonight.”  
“I’m always eager for your company, John.”  
“The weather is nice, though. Clear. Full moon tonight.”  
“I noticed.”  
“How’s our spaceship?”  
“Coming along.”  
“Seems like we’ve been waiting a long while.”  
“Any day now, John.”  
“Good, good. Glad to hear it. And I assume there’ll be room for our dozen charming farmer children?”  
“And space suits with their names on.”  
“Nice one. I like that. Thoughtful.”  
“They all look so like you that it’s difficult to tell them apart in their space suits.”  
“Oh? I rather think they favour you.”  
“Have you forgotten your scarf, John?”  
“I suppose I have.”  
“Do you want mine?”  
“Thanks love. I do love it when you look after me, Sherlock.”  
“So do I. You don’t often need it, but I do love to look after you, my John.”  
“Generally I hate being fussed over, but it’s rather flattering to have you attending to me.”  
“Yes, I feel the same about you.”  
“I know. Mind I’m only taking this because it smells of you.”  
“Oh? And what do I smell of?”  
“Ah, 'shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings.'”  
“'And why the tea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings'? Don’t talk nonsense, John.”  
“The sea.”  
“What?”  
“It’s the sea that’s boiling hot. Not the tea.”  
“More nonsense. Nonsensical poetry. The worst of both worlds.”  
“Ha, all right, then. You smell of ozone and white spirits and tobacco and starch.”  
“That doesn’t sound very nice.”  
“It’s lovely.”  
“How can I smell of tobacco when I haven’t smoked in thirty-two months?”  
“Really?”  
“Really. You know that.”  
“Not even a puff?”  
“Not the smallest puff. It’s against the rules, John.”  
“You still use the patches.”  
“They help me to think. Anyway, I don’t use them much anymore.”  
“I had noticed that, actually. You must be pleased with yourself. Giving up smoking.”  
“I don’t like to disappoint you.”  
“You gave it up just for me?”  
“Why else?”  
“You mean apart from the damage it does to your lungs, your throat, your mouth, your skin, your heart-”  
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ve already given it up. No need to lecture me about my former vices, Doctor Science.”  
“Thank you for using the correct honorific.”  
“You’re welcome, Doctor.”  
“Ha, so any other vices you’ve given up on my account?”  
“Cocaine.”  
“Cocaine? But you were already clean when I met you.”  
“Well, yes, by coincidence, but I gave it up properly because I thought a doctor likely wouldn’t want to live with an addict.”  
“Too right I wouldn’t. I didn’t know that.”  
“You remember Lestrade’s ridiculous drugs bust. That incredulous look on your face when you found out what he was there for. I liked that you thought well of me. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”  
“Ha, you were in trouble already, weren’t you, love?”  
“Trouble?”  
“Feelings trouble. You already fancied me.”  
“Perhaps. I wanted to be friends. I was already so proud of you. I could already see that you were funny and clever and brave and loyal. I wanted you to be my friend. I wanted to be worthy.”  
“Really?”  
“Really.”  
“And you started to notice my good looks a bit later, then?”  
“Of course not. I noticed your good looks straight away, John. I know I’ve told you that before. But I don’t feel the urge to endear myself to every handsome face I see.”  
“But you felt the urge to endear yourself to me.”  
“I suspect everyone does, actually.”  
“I’ve not found that to be the case, love, but I’m flattered that you think so.”  
“You’re too modest, John.”  
“Not everyone sees me the way you do, love.”  
“Fools.”  
“Well. We can’t all be idiot geniuses.”  
“Am I the only one in the world?”  
“Yes, love. You invented the job.”


	185. Chapter 185

“You are a loathsome cheat, John Watson, and I’d never have believed it of you!”  
“Me?!”  
“Yes!”  
“You’re the cheat, Sherlock!”  
“I am not!”  
“We agreed that we would use the print dictionary, not an online one! And you can’t just swap over to American spelling because you get more points for Z’s than S’s!”  
“Those designations are completely arbitrary!”  
“Anyway, ‘colourize’ isn’t a word!”  
“Yes, it is!”  
“No, not spelled like that it isn’t. You’ve hybridised it, so it’s half British spelling and half American spelling. It’s not a word! OI! That was mine!”  
“I know that! Anyway, you were peeping at my letters!”  
“No, I wasn’t you bloody maniac! Knocking the board off the table is one thing Sherlock, but chucking it in the fire is just mental!”  
“It didn’t all go in the fire. There’s a ‘K’ over there. Anyway, if you weren’t always setting fires, this wouldn’t have happened.”  
“Not setting fires, Sherlock. Lighting fires.”  
“Another arbitrary designation.”  
“Lighting fires in the fireplace is completely different from setting fires, and you know it, you tosser.”  
“You’re just trying to distract me from what a sore loser you are, you little-”  
“All RIGHT then! The board is burnt; let’s stop rowing about it.”  
“Can’t just switch it off like a tap, you miserable-”  
“All right, I said! Get the tin. Let’s read from the tin.”  
“You get it.”  
“Fine. Tosspot.”

…

“You first.”  
“You.”  
“You.”  
“Fine then”

 

Hullo love,  
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as badly as I want to stretch out your forelock with my fingers and watch it spring back.  
Yours,  
John

 

“I haven’t got a forelock, John. I’m not a horse.”  
“This isn’t going to work, if you carry on being an arse while we’re doing it. Read one of yours.”  
“Fine.”

John,  
If you don’t stop licking your lips every 12 seconds, I will get absolutely nothing done today.  
S

“Ha, did you?”  
“No. You would keep licking your lips.”  
“You could have stopped me.”  
“Could I?”  
“I can think of some ways you could have stopped me. I can show you, if you like.”  
“I’m starting to suspect I know what they are.”  
“Dangerous to theorise without data.”  
“Oh indeed.”  
“I’ll just show you, then.”  
“By all means. Nothing like some nice, firm, irrefutable data.”  
“No, love, nothing in the world.”


	186. Chapter 186

Want to play a game?  
-SH

 

What sort of game?

 

Where am I?  
-SH

 

I've done this one.

 

Yes, you were brilliant at it, too. This is a lazy version, but I'm bored enough to be a danger to the public.  
-SH

 

Let's call it 20 questions.  
-SH

 

Where am I?  
-SH

 

All right then.

 

Are you within a medical establishment?

 

No. 19.  
-SH

 

Are you within an educational establishment?

 

No. 18.  
-SH

 

Are you within a commercial establishment?

 

Yes. 17  
-SH

 

Are you there for reasons of business or pleasure?

 

Yes. 16  
-SH

 

Which one?

 

Ask the question properly. 15.  
-SH

 

No, if you won't answer the question, it doesn't count.

 

It's not my fault you ignore the rules, John, 15.  
-SH

 

Oh sorry, I thought we were playing 20 questions. Have we switched to Pointless Pedantry?

 

No. 14.  
-SH

 

That's the way you want to play it, eh?

 

Yes. 13.  
-SH

 

You're at the Tesco. Knew it all along.

 

Spoilsport.  
-SH

 

I'm bored, John.  
-SH

 

I can see that. Finish the shopping and come home. I'll liven you up.

 

Oh you will, will you? How do you propose to do that, John?  
-SH

 

See if you can guess. Let’s do 20 questions again.

 

Is it sex?  
-SH

 

Ha, no. 19

 

Have we got a new client?  
-SH

 

No. 18

 

These are all guesses; you’re not collecting any data.

 

Thought I’d start with the obvious.  
-SH

 

Is it something we’ve done before?  
-SH

 

Yes. 17

 

Is it a game?  
-SH

 

No. 16

 

Is it for both of us or just me?  
-SH

 

Yes. 15

 

Very amusing, John.  
-SH

 

Just for me, then?  
-SH

 

Yes. 14

 

Did you get me a lung from Molly?  
-SH 

 

No! 13

 

Ha, from Bart's morgue, I meant.  
-SH 

 

Obviously. 

 

Have you replenished the smashables?  
-SH

 

Yes. You win. Also Mrs Hudson left a load of crumbly old baskets by the bins, so I dragged them upstairs.

 

Thought you might like to hack them to bits with your hatchet. They should crunch and splinter very nicely.

 

How you do spoil me, John.  
-SH

 

My pleasure, love. See you in a bit, then?

 

If not sooner.  
-SH

...

“Ha, is this for me?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Why’d you get it, though?”  
“You have intimated that you’d have preferred I not set fire to the last one.”  
“I just don’t think we should try to play it again, since the last game ended with arson.”  
“Arson is such a strong word, John.”  
“Let’s see, so Cluedo ended with stabbing, Scrabble with arson, and what was Boggle again?”  
“Erm, defenestration.”  
“Right, defenestration. How could I forget?”  
“How indeed?”  
“Maybe we should stop trying to play board games together.”  
“What’s a little defenestration and arson between husbands, John?”  
“The merest of trifles.”  
“My thinking exactly. Rematch?”  
“All right, but this time, I get to set fire to the board.”

…

“No, John, it’s two o’clock in the morning. We don’t want any tea; we’re going to bed. Come on, John. Leave the kettle alone. It’s time for bed, John.”  
“Sherlock, she hasn’t seen us all day. We can’t just neglect her; it would be rude.”  
“Er, to whom are you referring, John?”  
“The kettle, of course.”  
“Ah, obviously. She?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Obviously?”  
“Of course she’s a she. Just look at her. Look at her spout. Lovely, isn’t she?”  
“Mmm, indeed. You’re whimsical tonight.”  
“You shouldn’t have let me drink so much. The kettle wouldn’t have done.”  
“Are you going to take up with the kettle and leave me, John?”  
“Nah, she doesn’t mind I’m married. Lets her keep her independence.”  
“How fortunate for me. Would she be in danger of losing her independence with you, John? I haven’t found you to be a particularly demanding husband.”  
“Oh, I’m very demanding with the kettle.”  
“This must be how you feel when you call me a lunatic.”  
“Ah, cherish it, Sherlock. They’re very special moments, each of them.”  
“Don’t I know it.”


	187. Chapter 187

“Well, love, that is impressively nasty.”  
“I’m a miracle of a disaster.”  
“Ha, so you are.”  
“May I keep the swab?”  
“Er, no, the point of the swab was to send it off to the lab and find out what exactly is growing in your throat. Remember?”  
“Does it matter?”  
“You want to get rid of it, don’t you?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Well, then we should find out what it is.”  
“Will you do another one for me, then?”  
“What for?”  
“I want to have a look at it.”  
“You’re meant to be resting, Sherlock.”  
“It’s not taxing to look into the eyepiece of a microscope, John. Aren’t you curious about what’s growing in you? Spirit of scientific inquiry?”  
“Nothing’s growing in me!”  
“Oh, John, we both know that’s not remotely true.”

...

“What are you smiling about, John?”  
“I don’t like to say.”  
“Out with it.”  
“You look really pretty right now. Sorry.”  
“What?”  
“Your eyes are bright and your cheeks are pink. And you’re a bit, erm, tousled. Sorry.”  
“I’m extremely uncomfortable, John.”  
“I know. Sorry, love.”  
“You are sick.”  
“Yes.”  
“Sicker than me.”  
“‘Sicker than I am,’ Sherlock.”  
“Oh god.”  
“Best get some rest.”

...

"John? John?" I must have been dreaming because I wake myself by calling John's name. My voice cracks; my mouth is bone dry, and my throat is burning. After a few moments, John appears in the doorway with a steaming mug in his hand. I chuckle myself into a coughing fit, and he gets into bed next to me and presses the mug into my hands. I sit up and take a sip, and the tea is pleasantly scalding on my sore throat. John rubs long strokes on my back as I sip. I hunch my shoulders and lean back into his touch. Sometimes I rather wish I could purr (must remember not to say that to John under any circumstances, or will never hear the end of it). Shut my eyes instead and know without looking that it makes John smile.

"Witch," I whisper when I have soothed my throat enough to speak, "Can you hear my thoughts and dreams now or conjure a cup of tea from the air at a wish?"

John laughs a low laugh and answers me in a whisper (lovely), "No, love. This was meant for me."

I yawn (it hurts) and say, "How long have I been asleep?"

"All day." I glance at the clock on my bedside table; it reads 19:24.

"I'm still exhausted."

"Yeah, love you look really groggy. Hungry?"

"No, my throat kills." I push the mug back into John's hand and try to curl my upper body into his lap. It fits quite well, and John is obliging enough to card through my sweaty hair with the fingers of his free hand. His hands are cold, and his nails on my scalp are wonderful. I sigh (it hurts) and think of going back to sleep.

Have nearly dropped off (my brain has yet to decide whether John’s fingers in my hair are thrilling or soothing)(depends on the context, I suppose)(bit of both at the moment) when John pats my back gently, “Sit up love. Let’s have a look at you. I think you’ve still got a temperature.”

“Fever,” I croak as I push into a sitting position. “Everyone’s got a temperature, John. Even the dead.”

John grins. “Shut up,” he says, “you’re too ill to be such a smart arse.”

“You’re the smart arse, John,” I tell him. “I’m a compulsive pedant.”

“Right, so you are love. Now shut up. I can tell it hurts to talk.”

“John, you know I have difficulty shutting up, even under the best of circumstances. I’ve been asleep for three days’ worth of sleep-”

“Fourteen hours is not three days’ worth of sleep,” John breaks in, reaching for the thermometer and packet of sanitary sleeves lying on the bedside table (I loathe the taste of plastic but John is very particular about using the sleeves). “Yes, you’ve got a backlog of very urgent pedantry; I can see that. Hush for a minute while I check your temperature, at least.” I open my mouth to reply and (predictably), John pops the thermometer into it. I roll my eyes and think of spitting it out, but we may as well get through this, as he seems determined. “Yes, the things you do for me, I know. I make your life so difficult.” I roll my eyes again. “Careful now. They’ll spring right out of your head, if you do that much harder.” The thermometer beeps and John reclaims it. “Thirty-eight exactly,” he says. “Getting a bit better. What about some paracetamol?”

“It would be the thrill of my life.”

John laughs, “Yeah, I’d gathered that from your expression, love.” He reaches for a bottle of paracetamol, opens it, and shakes two pills out into my hand. “Remind me next time that it ought to be ibuprofen.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk.”

“Ha, mime it. Anyway, has anyone telling you to shut up ever actually stopped you saying whatever you liked?”

“You’ve more influence over me than most.” I lean back on my pillows and start to untuck his shirt. “Why’ve you always got so many clothes on, John? I need to put my head under your shirt immediately, and you’re making it difficult.”

“Trying life you lead, Sherlock,” John says, untucking the other side. “That better?” In reply, I push my head under his shirt and rest my cheek against his side. It’s cool as I’d hoped it would be. “Your face is really hot,” John tells me.

“Thirty-eight degrees celsius, Doctor,” I say, wrapping my arms round his waist to steady myself.

John laughs (jostles me a bit but I enjoy it anyway). “I do love it when you’re snide and cuddly at once.”

“Then you must spend your life delighted,” I say.

John laughs heartily, “I really really do, love.”


	188. Chapter 188

“It is pissing down outside,” I remarked as I entered the flat one blusterous evening. Sherlock and Molly were sat in the front room in the chairs by the fire, and they both burst out laughing as I came in.

“Oh hullo. What are we laughing at?” I asked, hanging my umbrella and my coat on the hook by the door and toeing off my muddy shoes.

“Hi John,” Molly said.

“Hi Molly. Hullo love.” I crossed the room to kiss Sherlock hello. “I’ll just change out of my wet things before I put the kettle on, shall I?” Sherlock grinned wordlessly, and Molly covered her mouth with her hand, apparently to prevent the escape of her little snorts of laughter. “You two are certainly silly today.” Sherlock shrugged and bounced his eyebrows at me. “Right then. Back in a tic.” I went into the bedroom and put on some dry clothes. Skip was lying on the bed, so I scooped her up and carried her out into the sitting room. “Here’s Skip for company while I put the kettle on, Molly, as Sherlock seems not to feel very chatty tonight,” I said.

“Oooh, yes, please,” Molly said, holding out her arms toward me to receive the cat but glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Bit suspicious.

“What are you two up to?” I asked looking between the two of them.

“Sorry, what?” said Molly, already distracted by Skip, who was batting at her necklace.

“Am I imagining things?” I asked, looking at Sherlock. “Why aren’t you talking?” He shrugged again and patted his throat. “You shouldn’t be having company, if you’re still ill, love. Oh, sorry Molly. Not that I’m not pleased to see you.”

“I barged in,” Molly said. “I do that.”

“Right. Well. Tea.” They both watched me back into the kitchen. I’m fairly sure Molly started giggling again once my back was turned. “I know you two are up to something,” I called from the kitchen. Once I’d got the kettle going, I returned to the sitting room and threw myself onto the sofa. “What’s the game, then?” I asked. “Can I play? Or are you having a joke on me?” Molly glanced at Sherlock, and he glared back. “Seriously, what are you lot doing? Did he rope you into another one of his little sociological experiments, Molly?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Molly said, turning her attention back to Skip.

“Good god Molly, you’re such an awful liar! Bet’s off!” Sherlock was not at all hoarse, as he'd previously implied.

“You’re the one making me laugh with your stupid eyebrows!”

“I knew you were up to something! What was it? What are you two doing to me? What bet?”

“Sherlock bet me a tenner he could predict exactly what you’d say first thing when you got in,” Molly said. “And I said there was no way, so we both wrote down a list of things you might say and swapped. Five quid for each plus the original ten. And I’m up five so far, so the bet’s not off, Sherlock!”

“No, it’s your fault we were rumbled, Molly Hooper. He would have said more of mine in time, and it doesn’t work now he knows what we’re about. Bet’s off.”

“You made him all nervous by not talking.”

“Well, you said I could get him to say anything. I didn’t want aspersions cast on my sportsmanship.”

“Right, you two have gone crackers. I’ll have a look at these lists, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I think not, John,” Sherlock said, “We may want to play again.”

“We’d have to come up with new lists, then,” said Molly. “Or it wouldn’t be a fair game.”

“I’m not sure anymore who’s a bad influence on who, but you two are going to need a chaperone in future,” I told them.

“‘Bad influence on whom,’ John! Can’t you at least tut grammatically?”

“You’re really not going to tell me what’s on your lists?” I asked. “After I’ve been such a sporting guinea pig?”

“I’ll read you one from Sherlock’s,” Molly said. She pulled a folded bit of paper out of her pocket and read aloud, “‘I hear you darling; I’m coming.’” She wrinkled her nose, “What’s that mean?”

Sherlock chuckled. “He says that to the kettle sometimes.”

Molly fell about laughing, “Of course he does!”

“I do not!”

“You said it yesterday, John.”

“I don’t remember that,” I said.

“That doesn’t surprise me. I’m not sure you’re aware how much you talk to the kettle.”

“Let’s have one from Molly’s, then.”

Sherlock got out Molly’s list from his pocket and looked it over for a moment, “These are so generic, Molly. Fairly close to cheating, I’d say. Ah, here’s a good one. ‘Massive prat.’ It is one of your favoured endearments for me when we’re in company, I believe.”

“In company? You’re even worse in private, then?” Molly asked.

Sherlock winked at me. “Oh, Molly,” he said, “You have no idea.”


	189. Chapter 189

“Oh, what are you tutting about now, John?”  
“The state of the bathroom, Sherlock.”  
“Hardly a state. I left one towel on the floor. I’m feeling contented and idle. It will keep.”  
“You mean I’ll pick it up.”  
“Call it what you like.”  
“And the steam.”  
“Will evaporate. You get yourself in such a twist over the least untidiness, John.”  
“Said the man with a sock index.”  
“How much of your life do you waste pairing odd socks, John?”  
“Ha, you’re right, love. I could be traveling instead.”  
“You could be improving yourself, John. Brilliance is a constant, lifelong pursuit.”  
“Another mystery solved at last. Why’s John Watson so dim? Disordered socks.”  
“It’s never too late to be correct, John.”  
“I thought it was never too early to be correct.”  
“Correctness is apropos at any point in time.”  
“Right, especially if it’s to do with socks.”  
“Obviously.”

...

"I must admit something to you, my lovely."  
"Sorry, what? I'm your what?"  
"My lovely? You don't like it?"  
"No, it's very charming. It does make you sound rather more wicked than usual, though."  
"Does it?"  
"Yes, as if you plan to lock me in a tower or a dungeon with a dragon standing guard."  
"Who says I don't?"  
"Mmm, I wouldn't put it past you."  
"You shouldn't."  
"Ha, I don't. Anyway, you were confessing."  
"Right, yes. I'm jealous of your curly hair."  
"Of course you are, John. Everyone is. It's resplendent."  
"Think if it were blonde. The world would be brought to its knees."  
"Now you've ruined it."

...

"Tell me a secret, John."  
“Er, all right. A particular secret?”  
“No, I don’t know about it yet, do I? It’s your secret.”  
“Have I got secrets from you? I thought you’d ferreted them all out.”  
“I don’t ferret, John. I investigate. Anyway, I leave you your secrets, if you want them.”  
“If I want them?”  
“Yes, you sometimes want me to discover things that you pretend are secrets, and you know how obliging I am.”  
“Ha, indeed. Very obliging. Which of my secrets have I wanted you to investigate?”  
“No, I won’t be derailed, John. You answer mine first.”  
“Hmmm. I can’t think of anything.”  
“You’re hardly even trying.”  
“Maybe it would help if you answered mine first.”  
“So manipulative.”  
“Lucky for me, you like that.”  
“Well, from you. Your deflections are getting more artful, John. And your expression is intriguing. I’ll play along. You want me to find out every scrap I can about those dreams you have wherein you’re my violin, don’t you, John?”  
“Do I?”  
“Of course you do.”  
“And what have you discovered lately?”  
“Did you have one this morning? You woke briefly around 5:15, then went back to sleep for a bit before you got up for the day at 6:27. You had one then, didn’t you? Your expression when you wake from one of those is so telling, John. Just as it is now. John, your mind is all over your face right now. I wish I could show it to you. You look like you’d like me to play for you. Would you like that, John?”  
“You don’t want to hear a secret?”  
“I take my moments where I find them, John. Anyway, haven’t you already told it me?”


	190. Chapter 190

I fell asleep on the sofa last night. I’d been sitting up, waiting for Sherlock. He wasn’t in when I got home from work; he was at Bart’s, attending to an experiment. I spent the evening on my own in the flat. Too quiet. Sherlock would have called it hateful. I texted him, but he didn’t have much patience to chat. He didn’t like to stop for dinner. And then he didn’t like to stop to have our walk. And then I shouldn’t wait on him for anything as he was busy, and please don’t pester, John. Well then.

I had my dinner off a tray in the sitting room, while I watched crap telly and tried to convince myself I wasn’t waiting to hear my mobile go or to hear Sherlock’s tread on the stairs. I can pass an evening without my husband quite comfortably. Around ten, I muted the telly and stretched out for a nap. I knew Sherlock would likely be full of cadaver chatter once he got in, and it’s a subject he likes me to give my opinion on. Wanted to be fresh.

When I woke again, it was because of the crick in my neck. I sat up to rub the sore spot, then checked my watch by the light of the television. Half past one in the morning.

“Well, fuck,” I said aloud, looking round for my mobile. He should’ve been in by that point. I glanced down at the floor, started, then laughed. Sherlock was lying face down on the floor next to the sofa, deeply asleep. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. I reached down and brushed a few curls off his face. He didn’t stir. “Wake up love,” I said, patting his shoulder, “You’re on the floor, Sherlock. Let’s go to bed.”

“What? Bed? No, I’m not,” he answered without lifting his head or opening his eyes. I climbed over the arm of the sofa, so I could get down without kicking him and crouched near his head.

“Sherlock, you went to sleep on the floor, love. Get up; let’s go into the bedroom.” I patted him again.

He opened his eyes and smiled at me, “Oh, there you are, John. Where’ve you been all night? I wanted you.”

“I’ve been here, you silly. You know I have. Want to go to bed, or shall we lie on the floor all night? I don’t recommend the later because it does lead to stiffness.”

Sherlock sat up, still smiling blearily and turned to face me, “Yes, yes, let’s go to bed, John. You think you can stay away from me all night with no consequences. We’re going to need to make up for this deficiency at once. I am going to wrap round you like a ribbon on a maypole,” he said holding out his hands so I’d help him up.

I laughed as I pulled him to his feet, “Don’t you always?”

He draped his arm heavily over my shoulders, “Oh, you’ll see, John. I’m hoping to attain new levels tonight. I’ve gone to the kettle for advice in attracting you. I’m not too proud for advice when it comes to what’s really important.”

I laughed, “Glad to hear it. And what did the kettle tell you, my lovely?”

“She said I should get a spout.” We giggled our way into the bedroom, and Sherlock collapsed on the bed, still in his clothes.

I sat next to him, “Wait, love, you have to get undressed first. Take your shoes off.”

In answer, he slung one leg across my lap and wiggled his foot from side to side. “Help yourself, John.”

I began to pick at his shoelaces. “All right, then. I’m feeling obliging. You’ve got to contribute too, though. Get to work on those buttons.”

“No,” he said cheerfully. “But I will contribute.” He put a hand in my hair and rubbed my scalp with his fingertips.

“You’re the one who likes being petted, Sherlock, not me.”

“Don’t be silly, John; everyone likes it.” He patted my cheek. “Isn’t that nice?”

“No, you knocked my glasses crooked, you lanky oaf.”

Sherlock laughed, “Let’s swap then, John. I’ll undress myself, and you can contribute by petting me while I do it.”

“That sounds a bit complicated for one o’clock in the morning.”

“Tut tut, John. You’ll never achieve greatness with that lackluster attitude.”

“Greatness in the field of helping a grown man get his clothes off so he can have a sleep?”

“You consider that beneath you? Unfortunate, as you occupy a significant percentage of your time that way. No matter, I can manage without you, despite your half-hearted expertise.”

He did indeed manage to get out of his clothes and, as promised, tucked his head under my chin and caught me in a sort of dual-pronged hug with his arms and legs wrapped around me. “Maypole,” he muttered with a sleepy sigh, once he was situated.

“Comfy, love?” I asked, putting a hand in his hair. “Feel like you’ve amended the discrepancy?”

“Deficiency,” he corrected, butting against my hand with his head. “Very comfortable, John,” here he paused to yawn. “I’ve been meaning to put something in the tin, but I may as well tell you now. With my mouth.”

“Ha, all right. Your mouth’s got a knack for telling, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock chuckled, then bit down rather hard on my collarbone. “Punishment for your insolence. Anyway. I meant to tell you that you have me entirely at your disposal.”

“That’s a new development, is it?”

“More insolence. I’ll save your punishment for the morning, as I’m more interested in our conversation. Of course it’s not a new development, John. But it does both of us good to hear, and hear often, that I’m completely at your mercy.”

“I’ve got you in my thrall, have I? Despite my being a wicked witch?”

“More because of it, John. If you weren’t, likely I wouldn’t be. No, never mind that; that’s rubbish. Good or bad you’ve got me at your command, John. Deploy me well.”

“Quite a lot of responsibility.”

“Oh, don’t worry, John. You’re doing just fine. Everyone thinks so.”

“Everyone?”

“Mmm yes, John. Everyone.”


	191. Chapter 191

“Why does no one ever move as if they want to get anywhere?”  
“Worldwide conspiracy to thwart you and force you to slow your walking pace, love.”  
“That’s almost plausible.”  
“That and the layout of the Tesco. And people who stand still to text at the train station.”  
“Indeed.”  
“And the fact that you have to stop moving to open doors.”  
“All right, I’m starting to get upset. Talk about something pleasant.”  
“Something pleasant, eh?”  
“Something very pleasant.”  
“Well, if we were at the flat, I’d suggest we consult the tin.”  
“The tin is a very reliable source of pleasure, but it wouldn’t do to become too dependent on it, would it, John?”  
“I suppose not. Shall I just say something pleasant, then? Something about how pleased I am you’re feeling yourself again and how excited I am about this case and how you’ve got rain in your hair, and I want to kiss you. Something like that?”  
“Yes, John, that does very well."

...

“John, what do you think you’re doing?”  
“I think I’m making room to sit down in your mess.”  
“Don’t touch that, John. It isn’t mess; it’s notes. I’ve not had time to type it up yet, and it’s very particularly ordered. Took ages. Don’t touch a thing.”  
“Couldn’t you have typed it in the time it took you to strew it about the flat like this?”  
“It isn’t strewn, John! It’s organised, and likely more so than anything you’ve ever handled in your life. Do not touch it.”  
“Where am I supposed to sit? Where are we supposed to eat?”  
“Wherever you like. Just don’t put my things in disarray while you’re at it.”  
“Sherlock, this is disarray. This is the dictionary definition of disarray. If you entered a disarray competition, you’d be disqualified for being a professional disarrayer.”  
“John, it is unfortunate that you cannot see patterns laid out right under your nose, but hardly my fault. If you disturb my work, I’ll-”  
“Do something desperate. Right. You’re a desperate man. I suppose I’ll go and eat my bloody toast in the shower cubicle.”  
“So theatrical. Mind you don’t knock over all the bottles like you did this morning. I’m always picking up after you, it seems.”

...

“Don’t know if I’ve already mentioned it, John, but it isn’t absolutely necessary to blather constantly whenever your mouth doesn’t happen to be too full to speak.”  
“Er, yeah, you have mentioned it actually. And I don’t know why you make me out to be such a blatherer. I’m not more talkative than you are. Only more consistent.”  
“I’m trying to think.”  
“You’re always trying to think.”  
“I’ve always got something to think of, John.”  
“Right, well, as I don’t fancy being completely silent all the time just in case you’re trying to think, I may get you some earplugs.”  
“Earplugs? I may get you some mouth plugs.”  
“Did you just threaten to gag me?”  
“Might do. If it proves necessary.”  
“I’d like to see you try.”  
“Then it should be fun for us both.”


	192. Chapter 192

“Why do you look so annoyed, my John? What have I done now?”  
“Ha, nothing love. Got a bit of a headache, that’s all.”  
“That’s bad. Shall I make a cup of tea?”  
“I think too much tea might be the problem, actually.”  
“Too much tea? I’m surprised to hear you suggest it within hearing of the kettle, John.”  
“It isn’t her fault. I should have paced myself.”  
“Mm, indeed. Difficult to control yourself when faced by such a shining example of kettlehood, though.”  
“Laugh, if you like. I know you’re only jealous.”  
“Me?”  
“It’s all right, love. I understand. But there’s no fighting chemistry.”  
“Mm, indeed.”  
“You know. You’ve got Celeste.”  
“Mmm, indeed. So I do.”

...

"John with respect, if my list of things not to care about were finite, that would be at the very bottom."  
"That was really well-crafted, love. I'm impressed. You been saving it up?"  
"Only for a bit. I thought of it this morning, but I felt the moment wasn't quite right. I'm glad I waited."  
"Well that was perfect. You've quite hurt my feelings."  
"Thank you, John."  
"And you've still not answered the question."  
"Right. What was it?"  
"You don't remember?"  
"I wasn't nearly listening."  
"Then how did you know the moment was right for your little gem?"  
"Your expression, of course."  
"Right of course, my expression. Very clever of you."  
"Thank you, John. I know a bit about a bit. I've been called an idiot genius, you know. One of my finer moments."  
"Yes, you must have been very proud."

...

John, why do people consult me when they're clearly convinced that I'm a complete fool?  
-SH

 

You tell me. I suspect you’ve got an answer ready.

 

Perhaps because they're complete fools themselves.  
-SH

 

That seems likely. Who've you made a fool of today, love?

 

I haven’t made a fool of anyone.  
-SH

 

Well. I did just have a client arrested for murder. Would you call that making a fool of some one?  
-SH

 

I suspect they had it coming. Which client?

 

Prang.  
-SH

 

I remember him. I saw his email. Seemed a complete bastard. Ha, I suppose this means we won't be getting paid, then.

 

He did give us an advance, actually. I’ve still got the cheque in the pocket of my pad.  
-SH

 

Perhaps we ought to give it back? It cannot be said that we improved his predicament.  
-SH

 

Oh, we can afford to give it back. He'll want it for his solicitor's fees.

 

Indeed. My John, ever generous.  
-SH

 

I suppose this means you're free for lunch.

 

And famished.  
-SH

 

Want to meet at that place with the amazing carrot soup where the bookkeeper was living in the ceiling?

 

How did you know I was thinking of that place?  
-SH

 

Witchcraft. Race you?

 

The game is on.  
-SH


	193. Chapter 193

My hair is full of Altoids and matchsticks. Are you responsible?  
-SH

 

What do you think?

 

I think I've got a husband who takes advantage of me while I'm asleep.  
-SH

 

That sounds trying.

 

It is.  
-SH

 

Is it as bad as having a husband who takes advantage of you at every other time?

 

Much worse.  
-SH

 

Are you looking for pity?

 

I suppose none is forthcoming.  
-SH

 

Well, not for this.

 

Is there a word that means delightful and infuriating at once?  
-SH

 

Flirtatious?

 

Ah, of course. Knew I kept you around for a reason.  
-SH

...

 

Coffee, black, two sugars.  
-SH

 

I'm on my way to interview a witness, Sherlock. Remember? I'm not getting you a coffee.

 

Anyway, I know how you take your coffee.

 

I didn't mean for you to get me any. Just wanted to be sure it was still intelligible as a coffee order.  
-SH

 

Last two times I've ordered it, have been given coffee with milk in it.  
-SH

 

Did you do that thing where you mutter it at double speed and just glare when they ask you to repeat it?

 

Define double speed.  
-SH

 

I'll just take that as a yes.

 

You might get further if you allow for other people to be hmm, what's that thing again?

 

Ah right. Human.

 

Baristas, waiters, witnesses, detective inspectors, cab drivers, you, and me. We're all human.

 

Spare me.  
-SH

 

You're the one texting me to complain about your coffee order being wrong. Would you rather I ignore you?

 

Thought you might like to know I'm edging toward omnicide again.  
-SH

 

I generally assume you're hovering around at least 30% omnicidal.

 

Wise of you.  
-SH

...

 

I'm going to sit on you.  
-SH

 

What?

 

When I get home. Prepare yourself.  
-SH

 

That was not a request.  
-SH

 

Right. Of course not. How could I suspect that? Why, exactly?

 

What difference does it make?  
-SH

 

None to a chair. But I'm a person. Remember how I'm a person?

 

Just giving you fair warning.  
-SH

 

...

 

I'm not sure why I didn't exactly believe Sherlock when he told me he was going to sit on me. I was back at the flat about half an hour before he was, sat in my chair with my laptop, typing up my notes from my interviews with the witnesses earlier that day.

"Hullo love," I said when he came in. Sherlock huffed and hung his scarf and coat on the hook. "That sort of day, eh?" Wordlessly he crossed to me, took my laptop from me, shut it and propped it against the side of my chair. Then he took me by both hands, tugged me out of my seat, towed me to the sofa, pushed me down onto it, plopped rather heavily into my lap, and buried his face in my collar.

"Ah, that's better," he sighed. I squirmed a bit. His hair tickled my face, and his breath tickled my throat.

"You must have missed me," I said, wrapping my arms round his waist.

"Yes, obviously. And I loathe every other person I have ever set eyes on."

"Really? Every other person?"

"Near enough. We’re both aware of the exceptions, and I’m not going to list them. Don't try to make me be pleasanter than I can muster, John."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love." In answer, he only hmm’d. His mouth touched my neck, just above my collar, damp and a bit prickly where his stubble was coming in. I squirmed again.

“Don’t jostle, John. You’ll bounce me onto the floor.”

“You’re tickling me,” I told him, shifting one hand from his waist to the sofa to steady myself.  
Sherlock moved my hand back to his waist and inhaled deeply before saying, “Bear the tickling with a soldier’s fortitude, John.”

“Are you sniffing me? That quite tickled as well.”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

I slid one hand up his back to his scalp and began to stroke his hair before answering, “Never really been able to think of a good reason why you shouldn’t sniff me, love. I suspect there is one, though.”

“How could there be?” Sherlock said, arching back against my hand in his hair like a big cat. “At the moment, I have at least one perfectly good reason to sniff you. I want a dose of your pheromones. I’m trying to fiddle with my brain chemistry and improve my mood.” He marked the end of his speech with a deep and very tickly sniff. “Extra evergreen today,” he muttered.

“You can change your mood by smelling me?” I asked.

“Not sure yet. Experimenting,” Sherlock answered.

“How will you know if it’s my smell working on your brain chemistry or my charming company?” I asked.

I felt the tip of Sherlock’s tongue briefly against my neck before he replied, “May have to do more than one experiment.”

“Now you’re tasting me? Is that part of the experiment?”

“Mmm no, tasting you always improves my mood. No point in experimenting with that.”

I laughed, “Is that so, love?”

“It is so, John.”

“Is that why you do so much of it?”

I felt Sherlock smile against my throat, “John, I suspect you’re not taking this experiment entirely seriously. Sitting on you, smelling you, and tasting you are all tremendously important to my work, and I’ll not allow myself to be hindered by your sneering.” He dabbed his tongue against my throat again, which made me squirm and giggle.

“On the contrary, my lovely. I always take it very seriously when you taste me.”


	194. Chapter 194

"Somehow I wasn't expecting that."  
"No? Bit dim, then, aren't you?"  
"I didn't know you found sulkiness exciting."  
"It wasn't the sulkiness, it was the behavior attached to the sulkiness. In this instance, mind. Not always. Anyway, mood improved, I hope?"  
"Yes, John thank you for asking. Though I'm not sure the effects will be long-lived. We should do it again. For safety."  
"Mm, love I don't know if the words 'refractory period' mean anything to you, but they do me."  
"I can be patient. When necessary."  
"Ha, generous of you. What about a chat to pass the time?"  
"Oh yes, I've been meaning to take a survey of your favourite small talk topics. Shall we talk of how many people in the area seem to suddenly have small dogs? Or how variable the weather has been lately? Or of what a lot of coffee houses can't seem to make a proper cup of tea?"  
"Ha, why be pleasant and sociable when you can have the fun of silently glaring?"  
"I don't glare, John. I can't help my reticence. I'm shy and modest."  
"Yes, love, you are the blushing picture of bashful modesty."  
"The colour may be due to exertion, John."  
"No, I think it's modesty."  
“You know best.”  
“God, I wish I had recorded that.”  
“I’ll say it as often as you like, John. You know best.”  
“Mmm, I’m going to enjoy this.”  
“Don’t you know I think so, John?”  
“No, actually. In fact I rather suspect you’re being funny.”  
“Bit of a rude joke, if it were one.”  
“But it isn’t?”  
“Not at all, John.”  
“That’s a bit scary, isn’t it?”  
“Of course it isn’t. Let’s do the tin; I want to hear from the tin. It’s under the bed, isn’t it?”  
“Oh yeah, I think we left it there last night.”  
“I’ll get it.”

…

Hullo love,  
Found a sock in the kettle and only smiled. You’re a really horrible influence.  
Yours,  
John

...

“You take my side over the kettle’s?”  
“Just don’t tell her that. She’s really possessive.”  
"Ha, I won't."

...

Hullo love,  
Just used ‘whom’ correctly and looked round to see if you noticed. Am at work, though. Damn. Ah well. I reckon your grammar censor and your spying-on-John censor have informed you of your pedagogical triumph.  
Yours,  
John

 

John,  
I can hear you talking to Smoke in the next room. Wish you would not refer to me as her ‘Daddy.’  
S

…

“Actually I was referring to myself as her daddy.”  
“Just as bad.”

...

John,  
It’s been raining all day, which means you’ll come in smelling of ozone. Think I’ll light a fire for you. Not sure whether to put the kettle on. Think I would rather we opened a bottle of wine.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I think you’ve been wearing this jumper. It smells of you. Wish you’d wear all my clothes for me before I put them on in the morning.  
Yours,  
John

 

John,  
Had another of those violin dreams. Tossed off in the shower because you were about to miss your train.  
S

…

“All right then.”  
“Mmm, I thought that might do the trick.”


	195. Chapter 195

“Erm, I don’t think so.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Last time you spilled.”  
“You spilled!”  
“No, Sherlock, the bearer of the bowl is responsible for the seat of the cereal. If you abandon the bowl, you’re still responsible for its continence.”  
“You jostled.”  
“I was asleep! And then I got the fun of milk running down my pyjama bottoms at two o’clock in the morning.”  
“I told you not to wear them.”  
“The pyjama bottoms were not at fault, Sherlock!”  
“I only left it for a moment.”  
“Your judgement has been impeached, love.”  
“Unjustly.”  
“Who wakes up at two in the morning and thinks, ‘hmm, I’m a bit peckish. I fancy eating a massive bowl of cornflakes in bed’? Remind me why you set the bowl down on the mattress?”  
“I’d splashed milk on my hand. I wanted to get a tissue from the night table and wipe it off. You’re so fussy.”  
“Fussy?”  
“Yes.”  
“Me? I’m fussy?”  
“Yes.”  
“Right, Sherlock, if you let me pour that whole bowl down your pants right now, you can eat whatever you like in bed forever.”  
“You’d be the one changing the sheets, you know.”  
“I’m already the one changing the sheets.”  
“And I already eat whatever I like in bed.”  
“Please love, just eat it in the kitchen.”  
“So hard to refuse when you ask that way.”  
“Ha, I know. I’ll go with you.”  
“Oh, well you should have said so to start with.”  
“Wasn’t it implied?”  
“Ha, I suppose it was.”

...

“Did I wake you?”  
“No, love. Ha, well, yes, but I’m glad of it. I haven’t heard you play that in ages.”  
“Has it been too long?”  
“Well, if I let myself, I’d ask every evening.”  
“That could be arranged.”  
“Really? Won’t you be bored of it playing it all the time?”  
“Do I get bored of showing off for you, John?”  
“Ha, no I suppose not.”  
“I rather think it’s now my primary occupation.”  
“Well, as you’re consistently impressive, you may be due for a payrise.”  
“You still find me impressive even after so much exposure?”  
“I think I’ll always be still learning to appreciate you, love.”  
“Shall I play it through again?”  
“That’d be marvelous, love. Do you think afterwards you might like to hear a Nice Thing?”  
“Very much, John.”  
“All right then. We have something to look forward to.”

…

He’s back. We’re back. We’re back at 221B, and the world is once again going round and round the garden like a teddy bear, just as it should. It’s not quite the same as before, but it soon will be, I think. Unless we decide we want to change everything instead. I hope we do. I think he’s been looking at me. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think he has. Not sure if it means anything. Anyway, I could send myself round the twist wondering whether this touch or that look means anything in particular, so sod it all, I’m just going to tell him. Or kiss him. God, I want to kiss Sherlock. I’m going to kiss Sherlock. Yes, I am. Any day now. Fuck.

…

“You look like you liked that one.”  
“That was a lovely one, John. How long was it?”  
“Until I worked up the nerve? Ha, a few days.”  
“Were you nervous?”  
“Couldn’t you tell?”  
“I didn’t know what to think.”  
“That must have been new for you.”  
“It was.”  
“Did you hate it?”  
“I suppose I’d call it a charming sort of agony.”  
“Mmm, well-put.”  
“Thank you, John. Talent of mine.”


	196. Chapter 196

Have just twenty minutes ago finished with a brilliant case and am still a bit giddy from it. John and I are in a cab back to the flat. I've always liked this bit, and it's even better now than it was before I died. John's left leg is pressed against my right, and I'm worrying at the outside seam of his trouser leg. John's been scribbling in his pad since we got into the cab, but I suspect it's not case notes. Something about the way he keeps glancing at me and grinning. I squeeze his knee and, still writing, he shifts slightly to bump his hips against mine.

"All right, love?" he says without taking his eyes off his pad.

"What are you writing, John?"

"Just something."

I rather love it when he's evasive, and he knows it. He knows I like to puzzle things out, and he loves to indulge me while seeming like he's not indulging me. It's quite a talent of his. "Is it about me?"

John looks up from his pad at me and grins broadly (so obviously it must be), "So arrogant."

I want to snatch the pad away from him, but instead I squeeze his knee again (bit hard perhaps, his leg flexes under my fingers)(come to think of it, not likely out of discomfort)(mmm) and say, "May I see it?"

"Not before I'm through, certainly," he says.

"And then I can see it?"

"We'll see." John is smug. Must be something lovely. Squirm a little with excitement and John bumps me again. "Settle down," he says (but he doesn't mean it). He curves his shoulder and crooks his elbow a bit so I can't peep at what he's writing, finishes his scribbling with a flourish, then tucks the pad away in his jacket. He rests his left hand on his knee, palm upturned. Invitation eagerly accepted. I give his hand a quick squeeze, then try to slide my fingers under his cuff. It’s too tight for more than one finger, so I work open one of his cuff buttons. John laughs, takes my hand, and kisses it (edge of the palm, near the wrist). Lovely. I’m not even trying not to squirm anymore. It seems to be the reaction John is attempting to elicit (what am I, if not obliging?). “Bit overstimulated, are we?” he says softly. “We shouldn’t have neglected the coat cupboard, should we? We’ll have to get that seen to.” I’ve nothing remotely sensible to say. Sigh and nod. He kisses my hand again. Lovely. “You do know you were marvelous tonight, don’t you? ‘Course you do, look at you.”

“Was I?”

John laughs, “You want me to tell you about how marvelous you are, don’t you?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

John laughs again, “Superlatively marvelous, my lovely love. Sparklingly brilliant. And indecently gorgeous into the bargain. Will that do?”

“For the moment.”

John squeezes my hand, “Well, perhaps you’ll hear a bit more later.”

Squeeze back, “I hope so.” John is so clever with me, I can hardly bear it sometimes. Wish I could tell him, but can’t quite find the words. Squeeze his hand harder, and smile what I hope is an eloquent smile. It must be, because he smiles back at me as if he understands.


	197. Chapter 197

“So John.”  
“So Sherlock.”  
“Will you tell me now what you were writing?”  
“Mmm now? Wouldn’t you rather just lie here and enjoy my company?”  
“Well, I’m talented. I can enjoy both.”  
“Ha, yes, so you are, love. But indulge me.”  
“Will you show me soon?”  
“Yes, I think I can manage that.”  
“All right then, you may draw it out a bit, if you like. I know you enjoy that sort of thing.”  
“Yes, I do tend toward the theatrical.”  
“I like our games, John.”  
“Nothing like a good playmate.”  
“Indeed. Nothing at all. It is about me, isn’t it?”  
“What do you think?”  
“I think it is.”  
“Got any other clever ideas?”  
“Lots.”  
“You generally do.”  
“Generally.”

...

“Molly!”  
“What?”  
“Don’t touch that!”  
“Sorry! You set it down in my chair.”  
“I would have moved it, if you’d asked.”  
“Is it really so fragile?”  
“I don’t like other people handling my violin. It’s excessively familiar.”  
“I only touched it for a moment to put it back in the case.”  
“Incorrectly.”  
“I didn’t know it made a difference.”  
“Then you oughtn’t have touched it. Are you trying to get yourself ejected?”  
“For touching your violin?”  
“Your tone implies you think that reason insufficient.”  
“Seems a bit harsh.”  
“Harsh is a relative measure, Molly. Don’t tell me to recalibrate or whatever tedious thing you were about to say. If you were a musician you’d understand.”  
“Erm, is it still all right if I sit in this chair?”  
“I suppose.”

...

“Shut up.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Shut up thinking with your stupid, smug eyebrows twitching at me all the time.”  
“You’re imagining things, John. My eyebrows have been motionless for hours.”  
“Well, you look smug.”  
“Me, smug?”  
“You love it when I’m in a mood.”  
“Why would you think that, John?”  
“You don’t? Then you’re delighted about something else, I suppose?”  
“Are you in want of cheering, my John?”  
“I’m in want of sleep.”  
“Am I keeping you up?”  
“I’ve said I wanted to go to bed twice now, but you just said ‘Mmm nearly done.Ten minutes.’”  
“How long ago was that?”  
“Half an hour.”  
“Not bad.”  
“Very funny.”  
“Will you be grumpy with me in bed, too, John? I don’t much care for that idea.”  
“I’m not being grumpy, you’re being provoking.”  
“Mmm you sound like me.”  
“Shut up.”  
“Now you sound more like me, John.”  
“Right, I’m going to bed, where it’s less smug.”  
“I’ll come, too.”  
“To smirk at me.”  
“Would I do that?”


	198. Chapter 198

Hullo love,  
I do love watching you be brilliant. Your eyes go bright and you clasp your hands and mutter and pace. Sometimes you jump up and dance about a bit. I love that. You’re so carelessly energetic when you’re excited. Like a fire burning as hard and bright as possible because it can’t choose another way.

I was only going to scribble a bit of nothing nonsense for the biscuit tin, but now you’re watching me, suspicious and delighted at once. You think I’m hatching some scheme, don’t you?

You always seem to think I’m plotting some affectionate torment for you. Right then, I can play along. I do like having you stare at me all owl-eyed. You get so excited when you think I’m up to something. I will have to get up to something. Wouldn’t do to disappoint you, would it, love? I suppose I’ve dragged it out long enough now. I can see you’re in need of my attention. Well, you know me. Always pleased to be of service.  
Yours,  
John

…

“Are you plotting some affectionate torment for me, my John?”  
“Would I say if I were?”  
“I hope not.”  
“Well, then.”

…

John,  
I love to have you watch me be brilliant as well. There’s (nearly)(mmm) nothing I like so well in the world as watching one of my more delicious moments of clarity be reflected back to me on your face a few minutes later. I adore it when I open my mouth to explain something, and you start to tell me your perspective before I can speak. Sends me into a rage whenever anyone else does it, but I do love to see you think, John! I love to hear your thoughts.

It’s been an inexpressible pleasure to watch your natural inclination to discipline and deliberateness inform your approach to our work more and more. Do I tell you enough that you impress me? You do. You see things. Things worth seeing. Thing I've missed, with increasing frequency. You fill in my gaps, John. I imagine between the two of us, we see absolutely everything. We are a matched set. We sharpen each other. How perfect. How elegant.  
S


	199. Chapter 199

“That is you, isn’t it? I’m really seeing this?”  
“John?”  
“On the fucking roof, Sherlock. That’s you, yeah?”  
“Where are you?”  
“Down on the pavement in front of Bart’s. Answer the fucking question, Sherlock. That is you?”  
“Yes.”  
“And just what-no, never mind. We won’t do that now. Plenty of time for that on the-come down, Sherlock. Now. No, don’t move. I’m coming up to fetch you.”  
“You don’t have to do that, John. I’ll come down.”  
“Sherlock, just do as I tell you and don’t fucking move. I’m coming up. Please don’t move.”  
“I won’t, John. I’ll stay right here.”  
“I’m coming to fetch you.”  
“Yes. I’ll see you in just a moment, John.”

...

“John, I’m sorry.”  
“Right, just shut up, okay? Let’s just get you down. Come on. Take my hand.”  
“John, nothing is going to-”  
“Shut up. Stop it. We’re getting down right now, and you’re not saying a fucking word until we’re back at the flat, all right? I need to think.”  
“Yes, John. I’m sorry.”  
“Right. Come on. My hand, please. Thank you. And just shut up for a minute, and we’ll talk about it at home, Sherlock.”  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
“Please shut up. Please.”

…

“Do you know what I thought? When I looked up and saw you? You do know I look up every time I go in? You’ve noticed.”  
“Yes.”  
“Right. Good. Still observant, then. And you know what I thought when I saw you there?”  
“You thought you were having a nightmare.”  
“Good. Very good. That’s good. I did think that.”  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
“Thought I was having a nightmare, yes. Suppose I will tonight. If I can get to- Sherlock what were you doing up there? What the fuck were you doing up there? Why are you up on Bart’s roof outside my nightmares, Sherlock?”  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
“Yes, you’ve said! Answer the question, Sherlock!”  
“I wanted another look.”  
“Another look?”  
“I haven’t been back since. I don’t like. Revering it. Makes me feel like he beat me.”  
“Beat you?”  
“Yes. I don’t like feeling like he’s barred me from anywhere. Like he’s changed me.”  
“Right well, you know what Sherlock, he’s changed me.”  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
“Stop saying that!”  
“I wanted to remind myself that it was a triumph wrapped in ruin, and that he didn’t win. And that you and I both survived.”  
“Right, we survived. Well. For the most part.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“If you’d seen me jump off Bart’s, would you say that all of you had survived the experience?”  
“John, I-no. I don’t think I would.”  
“Okay, Sherlock, I thought I could manage a talk about this now, but I really can’t. I’m going for a walk. Alone, thanks. Don’t spy on me.”  
“I won’t.”  
“Back in a bit. Stay in the flat.”  
“Yes, John. See you in a bit.”


	200. Chapter 200

"Have you been smoking?"  
"No. I got them out but. I just."  
"Right."  
"John, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to see that. I wouldn't have shown you that for anything. I'm so sorry."  
"Yes, love, I know. Erm. I think maybe I was a bit selfish-"  
"No-"  
"Let me finish, please."  
"Sorry."  
"I try not to think of that, ever. I had been thinking that I couldn't bear it. But, er, you're right. He didn't beat us. We got through it. And I'm not protecting myself or either of us, I suppose, from anything by acting like we didn't. So if you need to go back, you should."  
"Thank you, John. I don't. It's all right. I don't need to."  
"All right, well. That's fine. It's fine, if you change your mind as well. But I need you to make me a promise, all right?"  
"Anything."  
"Please don't go back without me."  
"John, I can't take you up there."  
"Sherlock."  
"I promise."  
"Thanks, love."  
"I'm sorry, John."  
"I know. You can stop saying that, you know. Make me a cup of coffee, if it'll make you feel better."  
"Anything you like, John. It is ten o'clock, though. Won't it keep you awake?"  
"Erm. I don't think I'll go to bed tonight. Just going to sit up and read, I think."  
"Oh. I'll sit with you."  
"That would be nice, love. Thanks."  
"My pleasure, John. Anything."

...

I hover in the kitchen as the coffee brews. I ought to be out in the sitting room with John, but I'm so ashamed, I can hardly think. Which is no excuse, really. Being selfish, as usual. John is growing tired of my sniveling, though, and I don't know what else to say. Coffee's ready. Pour a cup for me (black, two sugars) and a cup for him (no sugar, splash of milk). Go back into the sitting room. John is sitting in his chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He doesn't look up when I enter. I set the mugs down on the mantel. Stand there awkwardly for a moment, hands clasped behind my back, but John still doesn't look up. I want to touch him so badly, but I think he’d likely only shrug me off (intolerable prospect, best not risk it).

Instead I get my violin from its case, take my usual spot in front of the window, and begin to play John’s piece. I think I hear him sigh after the first few notes (hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to manipulate him), but I resist turning to look at him and focus on playing. Even so, it is not one of my better performances. The pacing is all off (too fast, then too slow) and my fingers are a bit disobedient (miss one note so badly that I wince at my own flatness). But it calms me somewhat, and I play it through twice then stand at the window in rest position until the echoes fade.

“Thank you,” John says, so low I might almost have imagined it. Turn from the window to check. John is gazing raptly at me. There are tears in his eyes. Feel a renewed burst of shame. Set my violin and bow in the case, drop to my knees in front of John’s chair, and drape my head and shoulders across his lap. He strokes my back, and my eyes begin to prick. I suppose I should be mortified, but it’s rather a relief. John continues to stroke my back, and I cry and tell him I’m sorry over and over. He doesn’t ask me to stop again.  
I haven't ever lost control to this degree in front of John (last person to see me like this was probably Mycroft, around ten years ago, I think)(Detox. Another reason to be glad I’m clean now). Can't tell if he's surprised. After a bit (around a minute, I think), I stop crying, wipe my face on my sleeve (ergh) and sigh. John's hand moves from my back to my head and he strokes my hair for a few moments before saying, "Sherlock?" I nod. Don't trust my voice. "Feel better, love?" Nod again. “Can you sit up? I want you to look at me when I say this.” I lean back and sit rather heavily on the floor in front of him. Want to hide my face but manage to resist. John slides out of his chair and sits cross-legged on the floor. “Sherlock,” he says, pausing briefly to smile at me when I force myself to make eye contact. “Sherlock, all of that dead stuff happened because of him, not because of you. I don’t blame you for it, not one bit. I don’t want you to blame yourself. Ever. Not for the smallest moment. All right?” He waits until I nod to continue. “I know that because of what you do, mad and horrible things sometimes cluster around you. I want us to manage all the mad and horrible things together. Yes?”

“Yes,” my voice breaks a bit (knew it would).

“I’m sorry I got so angry, love. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

Shake my head so fervently that John puts his hand on top of it to steady me, “Don’t apologise, John.” At least I can speak clearly now. John looks as if he wants to contradict me, then smiles and pushes himself to his feet. He holds out his hands to me, and I take them and let him pull me up. John wraps his arms tight around me and presses his face against my chest (take a deep whiff of his scalp, not bothering to hide it. Feel a bit better at once).

“Well lovely,” he says softly, stroking my back again (start to well up at this and shut my eyes against it). “If there’s something we learnt from that, it’s that we do better as a team, yeah? Matched set?”

“Yes, John.” Shiver a bit.

“All right, my love?” with an extra firm stroke.

Shiver again, “You’re being too lovely, John. I can’t stand it.”

John laughs rather darkly. Gives me a long squeeze, then steps back and points to my chair. I sit. John retrieves the two mugs from the mantel and hands me mine (still warm enough to drink, but only just). He seats himself in his chair and crosses his legs. We sip our coffee in companionable enough silence and settle in to wait for the night to pass.


	201. Chapter 201

"I'm not made of blown glass, John!"  
"Ha, er, sorry love. I think the beginning of this conversation took place inside your head. Not quite up to mind reading levels. Not this early in the day, anyway."  
"Since the other day, you've been treating me like I'm fragile."  
"Because I made your favourite breakfast?"  
"Among other things."  
"Well firstly, I like soldiers as well, so-"  
"Do you?"  
"Of course, what's not to like?"  
"Mmm, that's what I said when you made such a fuss about the kneecaps."  
"That's because you would keep them in take away containers. Secondly, it's all right to be a bit fragile sometimes."  
"Not for me."  
"Yes, for you."  
"Anyway, I'm not fragile."  
"Everyone is from time to time."  
"Not me."  
"Your humanity is not something to be ashamed of, love. Remember?"  
"Is it something to be proud of?"  
"It's something to accept."  
"You sound like a fortune cookie."  
"You sound like an arse."  
"That's more like it."  
"Ha, thought you might think so. I know you like a bit of rough treatment from time to time."  
"Clever you."  
"Right, well you know me. Genius idiot."  
"Indeed."

...

"John, I want to ramble to you."  
"Hang on, just let me record this in my diary. Momentous occasion, you know. Sherlock Holmes decided to ramble at me. Don't want to forget this day."  
"Oh, how terribly amusing you are. At least you must find yourself so because you keep making your little jokes, though I am being generous with the term, I think."  
"A little bird told me that you find me amusing as well."  
"A bird? Hadn't we established that birds are impossible to deduce and therefore not to be trusted?"  
"Right, of course. Birds are quite shifty."  
"Anyway, before I was interrupted by your witticisms, I was saying that I've realised something recently."  
"That does sound like you."  
"Mmm, you're on sparkling form tonight, John. Stop derailing me; you've made me forget my introduction."  
"Your what?"  
"John, please, do you want to hear what I'm going to say or not?"  
"I daresay there's no stopping you."  
"Well! I know better than to give my opinion when it's not wanted."  
"Erm no, you don't."  
"Fine, then. I'll put it in the tin."  
"Something to look forward to."  
“I know how you like that. Don’t ever let me hear you say I don’t look after you.”  
“How on earth could I say that, love?”

…

“John!”  
“Oh, don’t you look a thunderstorm. Bee in your bonnet, love?”  
“Very funny, John.”  
“It’s a pretty common expression. Haven’t you heard it before?”  
“You know what I mean!”  
“Well, you haven’t said what you mean. Remember how I can’t literally read your mind?”  
“John!”  
“Sherlock!”  
“Fine, then. What have you done with my trousers?”  
“Oh no, have all your trousers mysteriously vanished? Good thing you’re a detective, eh? Should be able to track them down in no time.”  
“Give them back.”  
“Presumptuous, aren’t we?”  
“John, where have you put my trousers?”  
“Let’s put it this way. They’re with mine. Wherever that is.”  
“Oh.”  
“Right.”  
“Ah.”  
“Yes.”  
“I suppose we can look for them later.”  
“If we can find the time.”  
“If we’re so inclined.”  
“Well love, that’s quite an if.”  
“Mmm, indeed. Quite an if.”


	202. Chapter 202

"What are you goggling at?"  
"Ha, nothing. That was cute."  
"Cute?"  
"Yes, I'd never seen you so camp before. Darling. Are we calling each other that now?"  
"Shut up, John."  
"Never."  
"Obviously she responded to that sort of thing."  
"Right, right, so she did. Well done. She let us right in."  
"Sometimes a detective needs to be a bit of an actor as well."  
"Yes, I know. Seen you at it lots of times. That was just. Ha, a new one. New character."  
"Yes, well. It worked."  
"I know love, so it did."  
"What are you grinning at, then?"  
"Always a pleasure to see a genius at work is all."  
"Indeed. Glad I amuse you so much."  
"Ha, yes, I know you are. I can see it all over your face."

...

John.  
-SH

 

Amuse me, John.  
-SH

 

John!  
-SH

 

Please yourself, then. I've thought of my own game.  
-SH

 

Would you like me to tell you all about it?  
-SH

 

Not much of a game really. Have just decided to throw some of the excess mugs out of the sitting room window to see how high the shards bounce when they shatter.  
-SH

 

I suppose I ought to drop them, since I've no way of standardising the force of the throw.  
-SH

 

No. Veto.

 

You've had your chance for input. Too late for that now.  
-SH

 

Anyway you ought to be pleased that I'm ridding us of some of the excess mugs.  
-SH

 

Last time you referred to them, you called them 'an invasion.' Very vivid reference coming from a soldier.  
-SH

 

No mug chucking. Nor chucking anything out the sitting room window, come to that. Don't make me institute Rule Seven.

 

Are you only going to reply to ruin my fun?  
-SH

 

That sets rather a dangerous precedent, don't you think?  
-SH

 

You are being unusually boring today, John. Your office must be out of coffee.  
-SH

 

You know that ignoring me only makes me dangerously desperate for your attention, John.  
-SH

 

Perhaps that's your plan. Absence makes the heart grow fonder?  
-SH

 

Well, I'm at my most ingenious when I most crave your attention. You do know that?  
-SH

 

See you at home, I suppose. I hope you enjoy the fruits of your labours.  
-SH

 

Is that meant to frighten me? Nice try.

 

Sherlock?

 

Sherlock?

 

Very funny.

 

Sherlock?

...

 

I am remarkably comfortable. The room is overwarm, and John’s let me refill his wine glass once or twice too often. He’s still got his glass in his hand, though now we’ve moved from the table to the sofa. I’ve got my legs thrown over his lap, and he’s absently stroking my left shin with his free hand (the right). He chuckles a bit and I can tell he wants me to ask him what at. I remain silent, though, pretending to fiddle with my phone (surreptitiously photographing the hand that strokes my leg).

“Know what, love?” John says after a pause of a few (six) seconds.

Put my phone down and smile at him before saying, “Tell me what, John.”

“I’m a bit offended.”

“Offended? Have I done something?”

He nods, “No, exactly.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, John.”

“I thought you were going to wind me up tonight. You implied you had some sort of plot cooking, and I was rather looking forward to it.”

“Actually, what I said was that I was desperate for your attention. I have it, don’t I?”

John grins and squeezes my leg just above the knee (squirm, partly because I know he likes it), “You do have it, love.”

“Well then, why should I put myself out for the sake of getting something I already have? I did plan this, mind you.”

“Did you? That’s flattering.”

“Mmm, well plan may be too generous a term. I opened the bottle. I had something more exciting in mind, but when you walked in, I saw at once that you were in the mood to be, ah, accommodating.”

John laughs, “When you want my attention, you get a drink in me?”

“It’s a particular sort of attention I’m after.”

John grins (lovely), “Ah, I see. You’ve got something specific in mind.”

“Not terribly specific.” I pause to adjust my position to that my head is in his lap and my legs are thrown over the arm of the sofa. “All I want is for you to look at me and think of me and touch me and talk to me. Exclusively.”

John laughs again and kisses me before saying, “That can be arranged.”

“Well, yes, clearly. I’ve already arranged it.”

“Have you?”

“Of course I have.”

“Well. You opened the bottle. Anyway, how do you know I haven’t arranged it so that you’d look at me and think of me and touch me and talk to me exclusively?”

That seems unlikely, but it is a delicious thought. “Well whoever did the arranging, I’ve got you right where I want you now, John.”

John laughs so heartily that I reconsider the idea that he actually orchestrated this (he’s quite crafty in his way). “My thinking exactly, love.”


	203. Chapter 203

John,  
I’m listening to you clean your teeth. You hum the entire time you do that. Did you know? Not a tune, just a low ‘hmmmmm.’ At first I thought the toothbrush was faulty, but then you got a cold and you changed the pitch of your hum.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I’ve just come home to find you asleep on the sofa with your shirt half on. Comes of being awake for a day and a half at a time, I suppose.  
Yours,  
John

 

John,  
You’ve a new freckle. It’s on your right hip. How did it get there? Explain yourself. Well, no matter, really. It looks particularly appetising. On closer inspection, it tastes of your sweat. More than appetising. Mmm, now I’ve got a bit of your sweat on my upper lip. I do love to smell you on me, John.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
You're out at Bart's right now, and I'm thinking of taking a leaf from your book and texting you to come home immediately. Reason being that there are four identical take away cartons in the fridge. Two of them contain kneecaps that have been there too long. I'm not sure how long ago you put them in there, but too long ago. I know. Please get rid of them.

One contains some even more ancient risotto that you wouldn't let me finish when it was still worth eating because you said you'd get to it eventually. Still a bit bitter about that actually. You and your possessive streak. Though I quite like your possessive streak when it's directed at me. Here's me rambling. I sound like you.  
Last carton has my pad thai from last night, which I am very hungry for. I can't tell that one from the others, and I know if I get the wrong one by mistake, it'll put me off my lunch. You would know which was which, but you are not here. So I'm prolonging deciding by writing this note. Starting to wonder if knee caps are edible. You really are the world's worst influence.

Yours,  
John

 

John,  
I grow more and more convinced that you're missing quite a vital bit of your brain (the bit that warns you off lunatics) because my possessive streak is not at all charming. In fact, calling it a possessive streak is mild and generous to a fault. To say that I feel possessive of you is to say that you're rather fond of tea. A gross understatement. I should be clear that I have never for a moment worried that you'd take up with some one else (such an anxiety would be an insult to us both, wouldn't you agree?). I only feel wildly affronted when people are too stupid to notice you're attached to me or too arrogant to care (the reverse never seems to happen. I suppose it's because I frighten people; I don't look as if I would bear chatting up)(I wouldn't).

And also I want you to always think of me, look at me, touch me and talk to me (generally me only, but I try to be flexible). In fact, sometimes I rather wish I could shrink you down small and carry you round in my pocket. I shouldn't tell you that because it's ridiculous, but there you are. Frightened yet?  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I’ve never been frightened of you. Never for a moment. And I think I could make myself very comfortable in your pocket. Though you’re already taller than I am. Perhaps instead I’ll shrink you and keep you in my pocket, so I can be the tall one. I suspect you’d enjoy that.  
Yours,  
John


	204. Chapter 204

I really need a chat. May I take you to lunch some time this week?

 

Sure, are you free tomorrow?  
~Molly~

 

Yeah, tomorrow's great. I'll come to Bart's, okay? One o'clock?

 

Sure, that's fine. See you then.  
~Molly~

 

Great, thanks. See you then.

 

All right?  
~Molly~

 

Yeah, fine.

 

Well. Sort of. We'll talk.

 

Right. See you tomorrow.  
~Molly~

...

"Are you sure you're all right, John? Only you look a bit, er, frazzled."  
"Yeah, fine. Well. Fine. Yeah. I mean, I wanted to ask you something."  
"Okay."  
"Have you, erm. Sorry. Hem. Having a bit of trouble finding my words. Have you been up to the roof? Since? Bart's roof, I mean."  
"Once."  
"How was it?"  
"Er horrible. Thought it'd be worse, but you know. I didn't. Erm. I didn't see it. Happen."  
"Right."  
"Why do you ask?"  
"I'm sort of considering it. The roof. Going up there. Just to see, I mean. Is that mad? Should I even? I mean. Should I even try?"  
"Well. Nice view."  
"Ha, yeah."  
"Why now? I mean-sorry. You don't have to answer that."  
"No, it's fine. Erm, just tired of being haunted, I suppose. Ha, need an exorcism."  
"Well you know. Nice view."  
"Do you think I can handle it? Am I mad to even think of it?"  
"No, it's not mad to think of it. Oh, John."  
"Jesus. I'm sorry, Molly. Do you have a? My napkin's all dirty. Thanks. Sorry."  
"It's fine."  
"Ha, see, I'd love for this not to happen."  
"It's fine. Sorry, no. I mean. It's not fine, but not because of me. I don't mind. I mean. I care but. Sorry."  
"It's like, when it happened, you know I just felt so ruined. Like I'd lost everything. Broken. You know?"  
"Yeah."  
"Right. Then he came back and we started seeing each other and I dnno. I suppose I thought that would, er. Make up for losing him in the first place? I don't know. I just want to stop seeing it. You know? I'm so tired of that. It's exhausting, you know? Sometimes it just comes on me."  
"Yeah."  
"I just want to get rid of it."  
"Yeah."  
"God. Fuck. Ha. Well, good chat, Molly. Good catching up. Ha. Erm. Right."  
"What does he say?"  
"I, er, I don't really know how to. You know. Don't know how to talk to him about it. I don't like him to know how I, erm. Took it. I suppose. I don't like him to think of me that way."  
"Yeah."  
"I mean most of the time I'm really really happy. You know? Nearly all the time, actually. It's that last two percent or one percent or whatever. That's the killer. I'm just so mad for him and I don't want him to think that I blame him. Don't want him to feel like he did something wrong, you know? He takes that sort of thing so hard."  
"He really loves you."  
"Ha, yeah. So he does."  
"You should talk to him. Part of trusting him, you know? That he can bear hearing the things you need to tell him."  
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. God. Thanks, Molly. You are brilliant, you know? Brilliant friend."  
"Thanks, John."  
"Really, you are. Don't know what we'd do without you."  
"Dither infinitely."  
"Ha, right. So we would."

...

"What was that for?"  
"For?"  
"Wasn't it for something? Felt like it."  
"Just fancied kissing a miracle, I suppose."  
"Ah. And did you find it miraculous?"  
"Ha yes, love. Always. Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John?"  
"About the roof?"  
"Yes?"  
"I'm ready when you are."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Very."  
"Thank you, John."  
"You're welcome, love. Anything."


	205. Chapter 205

I didn’t like to rush it, but I didn’t like to keep him waiting. I told him to decide, and he picked the next day. Like me, John is not a man to stand around and wait when he sees his way forward. So here we are. In the lift and nearly to the roof. John has not let go my hand since we got into the cab here. I’m not sure if it’s for him or for me. Both, I suppose. I want to tell him that I’m not going to leave him again. But he knows that, and I don’t want him to let go my hand anyway, so what would be the point? Instead squeeze the fingers interlocked with mine one by one, so he knows it’s not an absent-minded pressure. John squeezes back.

After what seems like an age, the lift stops and we step into a dim, ugly little corridor. We mount the stairs to the rooftop door in silence. When we reach the top, I turn to look at John before I open the door out onto the roof, and he nods at me before I can speak. I open the door and swallow a bit of panic as I step out onto the roof. I’m not sure if John has arranged it this way intentionally, but I’m not struck with deja vu, as I expected to be. The sun is in a different place in the sky, it’s clear and breezy instead of overcast, and of course, there’s no tinny pop music and leering lunatic waiting for me. For us, I should say. I look at John. He’s looking at me.

I wave one arm as if I’m showing him something splendid, “Welcome,” I say, and immediately feel foolish and wrong-headed. Bad time for a joke. John smirks though, and I nearly chuckle myself. John squeezes my hand again. For a bit, we stand with our backs nearly to the door, but eventually John moves forward and I follow after him. He makes for the spot where Moriarty died immediately. John knows a bloodstain when he sees one, so there was no use hoping he’d not be able to find it. Better here than the north edge of the building. Pray he doesn’t get too near there. Though he never saw it from this perspective. He might be interested. I would be.

John looks at the bloodstain for a long time (it isn’t actually a long time; only twenty-seven seconds) before he says, “This was him, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” John crouches (without letting go of me, I follow him down) for a closer look, just as he might at a crime scene. Think briefly of offering him my magnifying glass. Decide against it. The stain is not very vivid anymore. A sort of ochre from being baked by the sun. John touches the edge of it with one finger and rather shudders. “Here’s what’s left,” he says quietly.

“Yes.” I shudder, too.

John withdraws his hand from the stain frowningly and looks at me. “We’re breathing him right now,” he says. “Particles of him.”

That sounds like something I’d say (though I hadn’t thought of it), “I suppose we are.”

“He’s just particles now. Seems a bit unfair.” I think I understand. I nod. John sits back heavily (I follow; he’s still clutching my hand like a kite string). “I want to tell you something,” he says. “I don’t know that I’ve told you properly.”

“All right.” I know I sound terribly stiff, but I can’t think what else to say. Can hardly think at all, actually. Too absorbed in watching John and wanting to memorise every scrap of everything he says and does while we are here.

“Even if you hadn’t come back, you would have been a miracle, Sherlock. Maybe it sounds stupid to say because you didn’t get top marks in school, you jumped off a building-”

“I did both, John.”

“Ha, right. Didn’t mean to downplay your other accomplishments. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I’m so proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you. Right from the beginning. Always been proud to be with you, proud to be your friend. Proud that you chose me. So, hem, sorry. Thank you for saving me all the scores of times that you saved me. I’d have been more than finished without you.” Listen to John speak, wishing I were better so I could have forever every word, every intake of breath, every quirk of his lips and crease of his brow and each other tiny nuance too small to name. I want it all. Let out a breath when he stops speaking. Hadn’t realised I was holding it.

John looks at me for a long moment as if he’d like to say more but can’t quite find the words. Then he takes me by the lapels and buries his face in my neck. Wrap my arms round his waist and am almost startled when a moment later, I feel a tear land on my neck and slide down to my collar. Squeeze him harder and he sighs hot against me. Another tear lands on me, then a third and I stop trying to count them. John gasps a little, trying to steady himself. I squeeze him again, trying to tell him that he need not rush himself for me.

I have been selfish and remiss (of course). John thinks he needs to present a brave face for me. He’s always been the calm one, the steady one. My rock, my heart, my doctor. I want to tell him that if he will do me the honour of weeping against me, I will gladly have every drop. How brave and strong I feel, comforting John. As if I could easily do and be anything in his service. I’ll tell him some time. Some other time. Ridiculous to try and make a speech at this moment, so I only hold him closer and lay my cheek against the top of his head. John sobs onto my neck and shoulder as if his heart would break, and I find that somehow I can bear it.


	206. Chapter 206

“Good morning, John.”  
“Mmm, good morning love.”  
“All right? Sleep well?”  
“Never better.”  
“Me too. What would you like to do today, John?”  
“Oh hadn’t thought, really. I just want to drink you in.”  
“Mm, that can be arranged.”

...

“Why are you laughing at me, John?”  
“You pull such funny faces in here.”  
“The water is going in my eyes.”  
“Ha, you’re like a bird in a bird bath.”  
“Is that meant as a compliment?”  
“Oh, they’re all compliments.”  
“Oh?”  
“Definitely.”

...

“You trying to look after me, love?”  
“Generally.”  
“Ha, this is the third cup of tea you’ve brought me today.”  
“You look thirsty.”  
“I was actually.”  
“I know. Feel better?”  
“I do. Thanks.”  
“My pleasure.”

...

“John, I want to do something for you.”  
“Ha, all right then, love. What sort of thing?”  
“I don’t know!”  
“All right, love. Settle down.”  
“John, I’m a terribly stupid husband. I want very badly to make much of you, but I don’t know how. You always know just what to do with me, and I want to make you feel the way you make me feel.”  
“Oh my lovely. You do. Don’t you know?”  
“Do I?”  
“Of course you do. Don’t be thick.”  
“Thank you John.”  
“Of course, love. Sherlock?”  
“Yes, John?”  
“I know how you feel about me. You don’t have to make a show of it just for the sake of making a show of it.”  
“No, not a show. But John, I erm. God, I can hardly speak!”  
“In your own time, love.”  
“Thank you, John. Somehow you know just how to speak to me and just how to touch me and just how to look at me to make me feel like I’m wonderful. It’s just brilliant, John. It’s beyond brilliant. You’re just what I need, and I hate that I’m so clumsy that I can’t do for you what you do for me. But I’m going to teach myself. I’m determined.”  
“Sherlock, you are lovely just as you are.”  
“I knew you’d say that, John. But there’s no stopping me. I’m determined.”  
“Ha, of course you are, love. Start with a kiss, then.”


	207. Chapter 207

"John, may we have our walk early tonight? I'm desperate to have you on my arm."  
"Desperate, are you?"  
"Frantic."  
"Well, I can't say no to that. Nothing I like so much as a desperate detective."  
"Oh?"  
"Isn't it obvious?"  
"Mm sometimes."  
"I do. Favourite thing in the whole world, you might say."  
"Oh?"  
"Definitely."  
"Well nice night for it. Warm, clear, not a full moon unfortunately, but waxing gibbous, and I'm rather fond of those myself."  
"Are you? I'm surprised to hear you've got a favourite phase of the moon."  
"I don't know that I'd say I've got a favourite phase, but I do like the look of it with that sliver missing. Oh and I must warn you, John."  
"Warn me?"  
"Yes, I suspect I'll be feeling rather, ah, expansive."  
"Expansive?"  
"Yes, likely you'd say I'm feeling poetic."  
"Infuriating of me."  
"You have your moments, I suppose."  
"Well, my lovely, as you are feeling desperate, frantic, and expansive at once, I suppose we'd better be off right away."  
"I am at your disposal."  
"As I am at yours."  
"Then shall we?"  
"Let's."

...

"Mmm, this is atmospheric, isn't it, love? Nice night."  
"Yes, nearly as much as I'd hoped."  
"Ha, you're hard to please."  
"Well, I like things to be nice for you, John."  
"It's perfectly nice."  
"If you're pleased."  
"Very pleased."  
"It'll do, then."  
"You're in a good mood."  
"Ah, it's the company I keep. Has a good effect on me."  
"Thank you and you're welcome. Though you were up early this morning, weren't you?"  
"Was I?"  
"I heard you playing."  
"Did you? Sorry to disturb you."  
"I wasn't disturbed."  
"Sorry to wake you, then."  
"Were you composing, love?"  
"Perhaps."  
"It sounded like it."  
"Did it?"  
“To me it did.”  
“Mmm, I can’t get anything past you, can I John?”  
“Ha, I don’t know about that one, love. Is it for me?”  
“Is what for you?”  
“What did we say was the word for infuriating and delightful at once?”  
“Flirtatious.”  
“Right. Well. Then?”  
“Ha, yes, John. It’s for you.”  
“Will you need three years to practise it before I’m allowed to hear it?”  
“You’ve heard a bit of it this morning.”  
“Answer me properly, you flirt, you.”  
“You may hear it the identical moment it is fit to be heard.”  
“The identical moment?”  
“The identical moment.”  
“Will that be three years from now?”  
“I hope not.”  
“You don’t know?”  
“Mmm, sometimes I’m only the vessel, John.”  
“Is that you being expansive?”  
“Are you accusing me of poetry?”  
“Was it unintentional?”  
“Not exactly.”  
“Well it does nicely for poetry anyway.”  
“My, what a pretty compliment.”  
“Ha, I was hoping to provoke you into being a bit of an arse tonight, love. I’ve missed it.”  
“I’m not being an arse!”  
“Just a bit? I’ve missed it.”  
“Oh all right. Anything for you. Idiot.”


	208. Chapter 208

“I was really hungry, Sherlock.”  
“Still are, I expect.”  
“Are you trying to annoy me?”  
“Thought you’d missed it.”  
“Get some food in me, and you can be as much of an arse as you like.”  
“I couldn’t have gotten anything down in there, anyway. It was so boisterous.”  
“That affects your appetite, does it?”  
“You know it does.”  
“Well I can’t say I approve of your method of dealing with boisterousness.”  
“Yes, you’ve made that amply clear.”  
“It’s just that standing and shouting ‘shut up!’ in the middle of a restaurant doesn’t do much to lessen the boisterousness.”  
“It did for a moment.”  
“Right, a moment. And then we got thrown out. How many times does that make?”  
“Only two.”  
“That’s still too many times to be thrown out of a restaurant.”  
“The other time it was a cafe.”  
“Not the point, Sherlock.”  
“You should make a little signboard to hold up; I’m sure you must be getting tired of saying that.”

...

You look nice today.  
-SH

 

Are you following me?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

Bored.  
-SH

 

You're following too close, you know.

 

Yes, I'm very likely to be discovered, but the stakes are rather low.  
-SH

 

That's what you think.

 

Oh? Do you have some retributive plot in mind?  
-SH

 

Generally.

 

You realise we're both being one of those horrible people who texts and walks. We'll be thrown in prison any minute, I expect.

 

We'll break out.  
-SH

 

Anyway, we've rather more situational awareness than most people. Less likely to collide  
-SH

 

I'm getting some really shirty looks.

 

I always do. You get used to it.   
-SH

 

I was going to tell you about how nice you look.  
-SH

 

Interested?  
-SH

 

Well, as you're rather crowding me with your incredibly obvious tail at the moment, what if I just stop walking and you tell me with your mouth?

 

Firstly, you are my husband, and I consider it my prerogative to tail you as obviously as I like.  
-SH

 

Secondly, I will gladly tell you with my mouth. Now?  
-SH

 

Why not?

 

Oh, ha. Not like that.

 

Well. Not unlike that necessarily.

 

Glad you keep an open mind.  
-SH

 

Won’t you have broken another appointment with your barber?  
-SH

 

Yes, you’ve turned me into a total barbarian. Where might we?

 

I’ve got a place in mind. You follow me, now.  
-SH

 

We’re not going to walk together?

 

Isn’t this more fun? Bit of suspense?  
-SH

 

Ha, I suppose it is fun. See you in a bit then.

 

Oh, sooner.  
-SH 

 

You planned this, didn't you?

 

Obviously.   
-SH


	209. Chapter 209

“Sherlock, have you seen the biscuit tin, love?”  
“I’ve got it here, John. Are you about to put something in it?”  
“Ha, yes. And you’ve just put something in as well, haven’t you?”  
“Yes, it seems we’ve both been feeling very affectionate recently.”  
“It’s getting a bit overstuffed in there, actually. Let’s have a look.”  
“I was just going to say.”

 

John,  
I really hate the trousers you've got on right now. Think I'll hide them at the next available opportunity. Do you know anything about my hiding spots? I think I know yours.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
Had another of those dreams last night. You know the ones I mean. You've probably already worked it out going by my right ear or some other such rubbish. I do love that about you.   
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
You're smiling in your sleep right now. Wish I knew what about.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
You're interviewing a potential client right now, and he's absolutely terrified of you. Somehow your face is getting more and more expressionless, and he's getting more and more flustered. I'm having a really hard time not laughing. Bit unprofessional. Not paying attention to what he's saying at all, I'm afraid, but I rather suspect we won't be taking this one.  
Yours,  
John

 

John,  
Been working on your piece all day. Thought you'd like to know. It's going quite well. But then you left the house this morning in a particularly inspiring shade of green, so you must have some idea already. Do you? Often I'm not quite sure when you're charming me or when you're just charming. One of the myriad ways in which you are fascinating.  
S

 

“Will it be ready soon?”  
“Be patient, John. It’ll be ready in time. Doesn’t do to rush these things.”  
“Will you practise it on my arm, while you get it ready?”  
“I may. Would you like that?”  
“Very much.”  
“I’ll remember that.”


	210. Chapter 210

“Feeling nostalgic?”  
“I’ve really no idea what you mean.”  
“I find that difficult to believe.”  
“Try.”  
“You’ve been visiting some old haunts, haven’t you?”  
“Oh, just come out with it, Mycroft. I’m not in the mood.”  
“Roof of St. Bart’s Hospital? Twice in the last few weeks?”  
“Your snooping knows no bounds.”  
“Indeed. And what carried you there?”  
“A cab. And then the lift.”  
“I see you’re intent on being difficult.”  
“No, I’ll be easy and tell you that I’m not discussing this with you.”  
“Only wondering if you’re having another of your clever ideas.”  
“I’m always having another of my clever ideas.”  
“Sherlock, please. Don’t you find it exhausting to be so exhausting?”  
“I’m not going to jump off again, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
“Ah good. It was so inconvenient the last time.”  
“You have no idea.”

…

“Got a text from your brother.”  
“Hope you deleted it.”  
“Oh, then you know what it was about.”  
“I’ve an inkling.”  
“Wanted to know what we were doing up there.”  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
“Don’t be stupid. Anyway, it was fine. Hadn’t told him to piss off in a while. It was nice.”  
“Sorry to have missed it.”

...

“John, do you want me to be more polite?”  
“Sorry, what? More what?”  
“I mean it, John.”  
“Ha, Sherlock, if I wanted to be with some one polite, would I have married you?”  
“I’m not always rude!”  
“Even your proposal was a bit rude, love.”  
“Was it? You didn’t like it?”  
“Sherlock, it was perfect. Don’t be thick.”  
“Rude and perfect?”  
“Sorry, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I? Ha, well, sorry. Erm, what I mean is that you are exactly what I want just the way you are.”  
“Really?”  
“Of course, love! Hadn’t you noticed?”  
“I suppose I had. Say more about that.”  
“Well, I know that if you say something to me, it’s because you mean it. I suppose when I say you’re not polite, what I mean is that you don’t bother with those little social obfuscations. So I know that you actually are completely mad for me.”  
“Mmm, so I am. Say more.”  
“That makes me feel really important, you know.”  
“Does it?”  
“Yeah, like dangerously important.”  
“You are dangerously important, John.”  
“See I know you mean that. It’s really lovely to be thought of that way. You’re dangerously important, as well you know, Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Am I?”  
“Now you really are being thick.”  
“I just want to make you happy, John.”  
“Well, love, I’m bloody delirious.”  
“Clearly.”


	211. Chapter 211

“I suppose we’ve got to come up with names for them now.”  
“Hmm?”  
“The music you’ve composed for me. There are two pieces, so you’ve got to name them, haven’t you? Or we won’t be able to tell them apart. Well, we could but it might get a bit unwieldy.”  
“I’ve sort of named them in my mind, already.”  
“Ha, ‘course you have. What are they called, then?”  
“Well, the first one, I just call it ‘John’.”  
“Of course. Fine name, fine name. Upstanding.”  
“Mmm, indeed. Upstanding in the extreme.”  
“And the second one? What’s it called?”  
“Bit embarrassing, now I’m about to say it aloud. I call it ‘More’.”  
“‘More’?”  
“Yes.”  
“Why ‘More’? What’s that mean?”  
“Well, it means a lot of things.”  
“Oh, come on, Sherlock. Don’t make me pull it out of you.”  
“Would I do that, John?”  
“Come on, love. Just tell me. Please.”  
“Mm beg a bit more.”  
“No!”  
“Ha, all right. Have a guess, then. See if you can deduce it.”  
“Sherlock, just tell me. I don’t want to guess, I want you to tell me. Please love?”  
“That was some very fine begging, John. Exemplary.”  
“Arse. Tell me.”  
“Tell you what. I’ll put it in the tin. Will that do?”  
“I suppose. Theatrical sod.”  
“Genius idiot.”

...

John,

I’m not one for talking of the meaning of my compositions (makes me sound like a writer), but as you’ve asked, I’ll tell you a bit. Just a bit. ‘More’ alludes to the fact that I have been afforded the opportunity for more and the fact that I’ll always want more. How fortunate for me that you never seem to be alarmed at how greedy I am for you, John. I surprise even myself sometimes. No, that’s not exactly true anymore. I used to quite surprise myself, though. It was rather unsettling at first. Starting to feel pervaded. Exciting but unsettling. I found myself wanting you so often and so fervently, and I didn't know what to make of it. Well, I have been called an idiot genius. Fitting.

You made yourself indispensable in my work nearly immediately, of course. How did I manage so long without you? You steady me. That’s the most important bit when it comes to the work, I think. You’re grounding, and I didn’t know I needed it before I had you. I suppose I still struggle against it sometimes. You’re patient with me, though. I won’t go on about that. I know you dislike it. One of your few areas of impatience. Listening to your own praise. I think I'm helping you grow accustomed to it.

You know, I suppose, that even after all this time, I feel rather agitated when I don’t have you at hand. Close at hand. It isn’t only that I want to spend all my time (even when I’m absorbed in a case or an experiment, I rather wish I could split myself so I could have my attention on you as well) looking at you, thinking of you, touching you, talking to you, tasting you, etc. I suppose I imagine that if I have you with me all the time, I can make up for how slow and stupid I was for the first three years that I knew you. I can’t, of course. But as I enjoy trying so much, I’ll continue to behave as if I might. I know your forbearance will allow it, my John.

This was meant to be only a line or two, and here’s me with another proper love letter on my hands. Ah well. You bring it out in me, you witch, and neither of us need pretend to be surprised by it anymore.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I can’t get enough of you either, you madman.  
Yours,  
John


	212. Chapter 212

“Shut up.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You’re all solicitous and sweet, and it’s unsettling.”  
“Surely it isn’t so far out of the ordinary for me to be, ah, sweet that it alarms you, John.”  
“Generally it’s in smaller doses.”  
“My apologies. What do you suggest we do about it?”  
“Be obnoxious.”  
“How, exactly?”  
“It’s less obnoxious, if I give you instructions.”  
“I’m at your disposal, John. You have only to ask for what you want, and I’ll supply it.”  
“You’re just winding me up, aren’t you?”  
“Mmm, yes and no. Yes, I’m winding you up, no I’m not only winding you up.”  
“Not only winding me up?”  
“Don’t you like me when I’m pleasant?”  
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”  
“Truthfully?”  
“Exactly.”  
“Well, John, this has been some very charming nonsense. Keep up the good work.”  
“I’ll crack you eventually.”  
“Crack me?”  
“Eventually.”  
“Well. I look forward to it.”

...

“John. May I inquire as to what is going on here?”  
“What does it look like?”  
“Erm, a bit untidy.”  
“Oh, just I’ve lost my brown merinos, you know me and my disordered socks, and I thought they might be in here.”  
“They aren’t.”  
“I suppose I could have just asked, but I thought it’d be quicker this way.”  
“Yes, your expedience is one of your finer virtues.”  
“Ha, right. Only trying to keep up with you, love.”  
“Mm, you do a fine job.”  
“Thanks, love. You’re holding up well.”  
“I do enjoy the opportunity to reorder my sock index. Thoughtful of you to provide it.”  
“I’ll crack you yet, Sherlock.”  
“Do feel free to try.”

...

“Come on, love. Time to do the shopping.”  
“Now?”  
“Yep.”  
“I’m sitting.”  
“Yeah, I see that. You can keep sitting while we do the shopping, if you can work out how to manage it.”  
“Generous of you.”  
“Come on, love. Up you get. The Tesco’s waiting. All those people. The haphazardly arranged products, the queues, the chip and pin machines.”  
“I know what you’re doing, John.”  
“Trying to do the shopping.”  
“This is another attempt to crack me, isn’t it?”  
“Does it sound like one?”  
“A feeble one.”  
“Really? Because I think I’m getting warmer.”  
“Well continue to try, if you’re inclined, John.”  
“I intend to.”


	213. Chapter 213

Wake with the feeling that something is afoot. Lovely. But John isn't in bed, which is much, much less lovely. Check the clock and it's only 5:50. Perhaps he only needed the toilet, and he'll be back in a moment. Consider lying in the warm until he comes back, but am already too impatient. Get up, put on my best dressing gown (seems like it might be a special occasion, even if not, he'll tell me I look lovely. Lovely).

Step out of the bedroom into the kitchen and John is already sitting at the table, still in his dressing gown and pyjamas (forgot to check the wardrobe for his things when I put mine on; rushing, too impatient). He doesn't look up when I come in, only lifts his mug from the table and shakes it in my direction. I chuckle, come and take the mug out of his hand, and give him a kiss on the cheek. He does not turn his head to accommodate the kiss.

"Good morning, John."

He sighs, "Morning. Coffee?"

"I was going to put the kettle on. Would you rather have coffee?"

He heaves another sigh so world-weary that I nearly burst out laughing, "Never mind. Nothing for me, thanks."

Grin and go to the worktop to turn on the coffee maker. "Hungry?" I ask, opening the fridge (not much in there. Eggs, though and pineapple jam. Hope there's bread. Just eggs and jam together would not likely be very nice).

"Fine." John slumps over the table and rests his cheek on his folded arms.

"All right, John?" He shrugs without lifting his head. "Are you ill?" Shakes his head. All right then, that's out of the way. He must be up to something. Must let this unfold to find out what. Lovely. I do love it when my John is up to something. Lean over and give him another kiss on the cheek (can't get to his mouth)(he gives no real response; stings a bit though I suppose it must be part of his plan) before I go back to the worktop and check the bread bin. Empty, so I get down the cornflakes and pour a bowl (just one; not hungry myself) and set it out on the table with a glass of milk. John ignores both. Coffee's ready. Pour two cups and set John's mug down in front of him. At the sound of the thud of the mug on the table, he looks up. The moment we catch eyes, he moves his arm sharply and tips over the mug with his elbow, spilling the coffee.

"Whoops," he says pointedly.

I really do laugh this time. "Whoops indeed," I say as sweetly as I can (won't be cracked, though I am enjoying his attempts). "Allow me, please." Get a towel from the hook by the sink and mop up the mess. John glares the whole time (though he’s clearly just barely holding back a smirk. Lovely). Chuck the towel into the sink, then pour John another coffee and try to hand it to him. He waves it away, slides off his chair and walks into the sitting room. I follow. John collapses onto the couch with a bit of a grunt and stretches out with his feet up on one arm. I take my chair and try to watch him without staring too hard.

“Bored,” he huffs, with the merest hint of a whinge in his voice. “When’s the next case?”

Takes me a bit to suppress my laughter before I can say, “Nothing really on at the moment. I’ll just have a look at the paper.” Reach for the paper under my chair and open it.

“Hurry up, then,” says John.

I spread the paper open in front of me and hide my face behind it so that I can laugh (silently). After a moment, I hear a leathery squeak. As expected, John tears the newspaper out of my hands a second after that. He rolls the whole thing into a large ball, tosses it into the (cold) fireplace, and climbs onto my lap. I put my arms round his waist automatically to stop him slipping off. John presses his face into my neck (he smells so lovely today) and takes a deep, rather shaky breath. For a moment, I fear I've misinterpreted this whole thing, but he only blows it out in affectedly stroppy sigh (mm). Hold in more giggles.

I must shake a bit with suppressed laughter because John tuts, then bites me quite hard on the shoulder (I get gooseflesh) and says in a low voice (would get gooseflesh if I didn't already have it), "Punishment for your insolence, Fortunato."

Swallow and say, “My apologies, Montresor.” It comes out a bit hoarse.

“Too late for that, witch,” here he pauses to sit up and look right into my face. “You’ll want a pressing to sort you out. Won’t you?”

I nod, “God yes.”

“Right then,” John gets to his feet and stands, arms folded, as if I’ve kept him waiting for ages, “Come on. Hurry up.” And he strides out of the room. I nearly turn my chair over in my haste to follow him.

...

“Well then, love. Do you understand?”  
“I think so. Tell me.”  
“I want you, all of you, just the way you really are, Sherlock. I don’t want you to sham courtliness all the time because you think I deserve it or whatever. All right?”  
“All right.”  
“Cracked, then?”  
“Yes, John. Well-cracked.”  
“I knew I’d crack you eventually, love.”  
“Mmm, so did I. John?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“Will we have that game again?”  
“Would you like that?”  
“Very much.”  
“All right. Maybe we will.”  
“I hope so.”  
“We’ll see.”


	214. Chapter 214

“Please love, don’t make me go out in that for no good reason.”  
“You aren’t made of sugar. You won’t melt if you get wet. And it’s so stale and so close in here. I need some air.”  
“Well if you go out of doors now, you won’t get any air because the rain will drown you.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
“Just open the window a bit.”  
“That is not a palatable option.”  
“Neither is wandering around while it’s pissing down out because you’re bored and fidgety.”  
“Come on, John. Don’t be boring. We don’t like me so much when I’m fidgety. Come along on a walk with me. Storms are atmospheric. I’ll have rain in my hair. You like that.”  
“I do like that.”  
“And then we’ll come back and have a hot shower, and I’ll make you nice and cosy. We’ll open that wine you like.”  
“Cosy, eh?”  
“Very cosy.”  
“Oh, all right then. Let me get my things on.”

...

“Cosy, John?”  
“Mm yes, love. Just right.”  
“Good. You look it.”  
“Ha, thanks love. So do you. You look sweet in my jumper.”  
“Bite your tongue, John.”  
“Ha, so did you enjoy your walk, Sherlock?”  
“I did, John. Thank you for coming with me. You were right about us getting extremely wet.”  
“Well, we knew I would be. Bit more wine?”  
“Thank you, John. That’s plenty. What about the tin? We haven’t done the tin for a bit.”  
“I’ll get it.”

...

Hullo love,

I've been thinking lately of how you've written me two proper love letters now, and I haven't written you any. Not proper ones. I'm not the adoring missives sort. I'm not the sort of person who would think to say something like 'I could easily see myself as high priest of your cult'. I don't even know how to answer you properly when you say things like that to me. I feel those things, but I suppose I lack your flair for the theatrical. And I’m not a gas bag, like you are. There, I’ve just gone and called you a gas bag in a love letter. That’s all right, though. You’ll only laugh. I do love to make you laugh. I could go on about that. You sound a bit evil when you laugh, love. Did you know that? It makes me feel like your co-conspirator, no matter what we’re laughing about.

I’m so pleased to be your co-conspirator. I think lots about the first time you asked me along on a case. I’m sure you remember every bit of it, but I think I’ll tell you about it anyway. You’d already run off, but you came back for me. I remember you stood in the doorway, putting your gloves on, purring and smirking at me and creeping closer and closer until you were nearly breathing on my face. I remember thinking you smelled of starch and white spirits. It was another of those opportune moments. There were lots of those. I’ve heard I’m a montage of opportune moments.

It is such fun running round with you, love. I feel so much like myself when we’re doing what we do. We’re so brilliant, love. We make a really brilliant pair. We’re a matched set. That says it all, really. We belong together. I’ll leave it there.

Yours,  
John

...

“John, that was so lovely.”  
“Ha, I only put that in this morning. I wasn’t expecting you to pick it just now.”  
“Yes, I saw you put it in. Knew it’d be something nice going from your expression. Well obviously, they’re all nice, but I knew this one would be especially nice.”  
“It isn’t really, now I hear it aloud. Glad you’re pleased, though.”  
“Shut up, John. Don’t be boring. I say it’s perfect. Of the two of us, which is the idiot genius?”  
“Oh, all right then. You’ve convinced me. Who am I to argue with the idiot genius?”


	215. Chapter 215

“So, John, erm, how are things?”  
“Fine, thanks. Oh! Fine. Ha, thanks for asking. Good. Everything’s really good, yeah.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yeah, Molly. Thanks for asking.”  
“Did you?”  
“Ha, ah, yep. Yes, we did. Came down in the lift this time, so er. Ha, you know. Better than last time.”  
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have. I don’t mean to pry. I’ll just shut up, then.”  
“No, really! It’s fine. It’s all fine. We’re really, really good. Thanks.”  
“I’m really glad things are going well for you, John.”  
“Ha, me too. Thanks Molly. Really. You’ve done so much for us. I really don’t know what we’d do without you.”  


...

“Been a long time since we’ve had a Nice Thing, hasn’t it, love?”  
“Yes, it has. The next one will be the last, though, won’t it?”  
“Well. We’ll see.”  
“You would go on?”  
“Would you like that?”  
“You know I would.”  
“I think I can find you a few more.”  
“What will you want for them?”  
“Want for them?”  
“You’ll want to make an exchange.”  
“Are you offering me something?”  
“Suggest something.”  
“All right if I think about it for a bit?”  
“Of course. Let’s take our time.”

...

"Are you being me?"  
"Sorry, what?"  
"Are you being me, John? Should I be you?"  
"Erm, sorry love, I don't know what you're talking about."  
"I thought we were having that game again. You know."  
"Oh. Ha, no, hadn't thought to. What gave you that impression?"  
"Your expression."  
"Of course. My expression is always betraying me."  
"Not this time."  
"Ha, I suppose not. Erm, Sherlock?"  
"Mmm?"  
"What would, erm. Hmm. What would being me be?"  
"Sorry?"  
"You know what I mean."  
"Are you asking me to do an impression of you?"  
"Yeah, I suppose I am."  
"I don't dare."  
"You’ve just offered!"  
"I know, but I regretted it immediately."  
"Why don't you want to?"  
“I don’t think I could do you justice, John.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. You pull such remarkable faces, John. And you do have a way with words.”  
“Well, there’s a genius idiot for you.”  
“Mmm, indeed.”

...

"Could you stop pretending to shoot me, please?"  
"I thought you liked me pretending to shoot you. You mentioned it in your book. Anyway you're annoying me."  
"I'm just sitting, Sherlock!"  
"Sitting and crunching."  
"Well, when they invent silent cornflakes, I'll stop crunching."  
"You'll only find some other hideous noise to make."  
"What happened to sweet Sherlock?"  
"Dead. Stone dead. Surly Sherlock killed him in tandem with you and your bloody cornflakes."  
"So this is the murder-suicide, then?"  
"Ha, so it would seem. Bang, John! You're dead. The ghost of sweet Sherlock's killed you."  
"A glorious end. I could hardly ask for one better."  
"You deserve it."  
"Thanks, love. Means a lot. You know what this means, of course?"  
"Have I killed sweet John?"  
"Yeah, but you’ve still got surly John."  
"That's all right, then. I'm just as fond of him as I am of sweet John."  
"Yes, I think he'll get on well with surly Sherlock."  
"I expect he will."


	216. Chapter 216

Sherlock has been teasing me. I think that's what it is. Or maybe he means to give me a treat. I can take it either way and enjoy it all the same. He’s been playing bits of his new piece when I can just barely overhear them and stopping before I can have a proper listen. I nearly caught him the other day when I was coming home from work. Saw him standing in the window from the street, and I could hear little snatches of his music. I rushed into the flat, but when I got in, he was playing Partita No One and looking sickeningly pleased with himself. I asked him if he’d done it on purpose, and he only said, “Shhh, John, I’m trying to play. Can’t talk now.”

I think he’s been playing it in the mornings as well. Playing me awake. I’m sure I’ve been waking with bits of it in my head. By the time I’m properly awake enough to listen, it’s something else or he’s stopped completely. He looks innocent enough when I come out to look. Though Sherlock looking innocent is suspicious in itself. He only tries to hide his plotting, when he reckons I’ll be particularly interested in it.

I’ll hear it all in time, I know. He’ll play it for me when it’s ready, and it’ll be more than marvelous. I don’t mind being patient with him. Generally I’m not a particularly patient person, but I manage it for Sherlock. Though he’s always dashing about in a tearing hurry, he gets quite stubborn if he thinks some one else is trying to rush him. He likes to set the pace. So I try to be patient with his rushing and patient with his dawdling and generally when we get to where we’re going (so to speak), I find we’ve arrived at just the right moment.

...

“Are you having a game with me, love?”  
“A game, John?”  
“You’ve been playing little snatches of your piece for me, haven’t you? You’re only pretending not to.”  
“I’m composing, John. How could I compose without playing?”  
“It’s had quite the effect on me.”  
“Has it?”  
“Yeah, it has. Yep.”  
“Oh John, do elaborate.”  
“I think you know what I mean. Don’t you, love? You’re rather clever.”  
“I flatter myself that I am. Still, tell me what you mean. I like to hear it from your mouth.”  
“I’ve been having my violin dreams.”  
“Have you?”  
“Yeah, had two this week. Really, erm, intense ones.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah. You look like you’d like to hear a bit about them.”  
“Very much, John.”  
“I’ll tell you about one.”  
“Only one?”  
“It’s the best one yet.”  
“What made it the best one, John?”  
“Well, I couldn’t hear in the dream-”  
“That’s not very flattering.”  
“Shut up, love, I’m telling it.”  
“Sorry.”  
“Right. Anyway, I couldn’t hear in the dream or see really, but I could feel.”  
“That does sound intense. What did you feel?”  
“Erm, well you tuned me first and plucked my strings a bit. Then you played the scale, I think. Then you started, erm, composing. I think you were composing. You kept pausing. It was. Er. Frustrating.”  
“My.”  
“Right.”  
“I’m sorry to hear I’ve been frustrating you in your dreams, John.”  
“Are you? Because you look delighted.”  
“Well, both. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”  
“I suppose I could get used to the idea.”  
“Mmm generous of you.”  
“Anything for you, love.”


	217. Chapter 217

“Ow! What’s that for?”  
“Affection.”  
“Biting is not an appropriate expression of affection, Sherlock.”  
“No? Since when?”  
“Not when you break the skin.”  
“I haven’t!”  
“Yes you have! See?”  
“Oh. Sorry. Hardly broken the skin, though. I didn’t draw any blood.”  
“Doesn’t mean you aren’t being too rough, you savage. Do you know how filthy your mouth is?”  
“Ha yes, I do in fact.”  
“Having a really filthy, microbe-filled mouth is nothing to look so smug about.”  
“You’re misinterpreting my expression, John.”  
“No, that’s your smug face. Well. You’ve got loads of them, but this is definitely one of them.”  
“I do feel smug, but not about my microbes. May I try again?”  
“Try again?”  
“The biting. You look very, ah, toothsome.”  
“I’m not a pasty or a macaroon or something, you know.”  
“Still...”  
“Ow! I thought you were going to be gentler this time.”  
“What gave you that impression?”  
“I suppose it was wishful thinking.”  
“The best of us sometimes fall prey to wishful thinking, John.”  
“Right. Don’t I know it. Well a compromise then, Montresor. Bite a bit more gently, and you can bite all you like, all right?”  
“Oh all right, Fortunato. I suppose I’m generally willing to indulge you and your little moments of fussiness.”  
“It’s not fussy not to want you to take bites out of me.”  
“It’s unreasonable.”  
“No, it isn’t.”  
“Yes, it is, John. Look at you.”  
“I look biteable?”  
“In the extreme.”  
“I suppose you mean that as a compliment.”  
“Isn’t it?”  
“Ha yeah, I suppose it is. May I bite you, then?”  
“If you think it’s warranted, help yourself.”  
“Thanks love. Don’t mind if I do.”

...

Come back to bed  
-SH

 

Are you texting me from bed?

 

Obviously.  
-SH

 

But I’m in the kitchen.

 

I know. I can hear you.  
-SH 

 

So come and ask me. 

 

No, the floor is cold. Come back.   
-SH

 

Get up and ask nicely, you lazy thing. 

 

Please, John.   
-SH 

 

You smell lovely this morning. The sheets smell very much of you. Your side is still warm, John. Doesn’t that sound inviting?  
-SH 

 

I want to find out if you taste as nice as you smell. I suspect you do, but it doesn’t do to theorise without proper data.   
-SH 

 

Come and collect your data in the kitchen. 

 

John, the floor is cold.   
-SH 

 

Guess you’re stuck then. 

 

Compromise, John? I’ll come into the kitchen, if you carry me in.   
-SH 

 

How is that a compromise?

 

Honestly I just want to see if you can carry me. I think about that. Is that odd?  
-SH 

 

I can carry you. 

 

Prove it.   
-SH 

 

God, I wish that taunting didn’t work on me. 

 

You can’t help being obliging, John. It’s your nature.   
-SH 

 

Are you really going to carry me?  
-SH 

 

Yep. Get ready. 

 

Feel a bit flustered, actually. Wasn’t expecting you to agree.   
-SH 

 

You should feel flustered. I expect you’ll never be the same after this. 

 

That’s your way, isn’t it? Witch.   
-SH 

...

“Told you I could do it.”  
“Mmm, I knew you could. Didn’t need convincing.”  
“Was it what you’d hoped?”  
“It was. Couldn’t you tell?”  
“Ha, yes I could. Genius idiot, you know.”  
“Mmm, indeed.”  
“I’ve just spotted something new for my list, love.”  
“Have you, John?”  
“Yeah, you’ve got blonde eyelashes. Did you know?”  
“Have I?”  
“Yeah, that’ll be number 415. Are you laughing at me?”  
“Not really. Only. Some one likes 415 things about me. I just felt suddenly incredulous.”  
“Right, now I’m going to read every one of these to you. Right this minute.”  
“That’ll be going on my list. When you say lovely things as if they’re threats.”  
“What number does that make, love?”  
“Number 527.”  
“I’ll need to hear them.”  
“Easily managed. You first.”  
“Ha, all right. Number One is Sherlock is always paying attention.”  
“That’s a good start, John. I like that one.”  
“Ha, I’m glad, love. Are you going to tell me how much you like each of them after I say them?”  
“I may.”  
“I’ve got 414 left, you know.”  
“Yes, my arithmetic is as good as yours, I believe.”  
“And you’ve got 527.”  
“Yes, John, I recall. I can see you’re about to say this will take all day, but why shouldn’t it?”  
“No reason, I suppose. If you won’t be bored lying about all day, listening to me talk.”  
“Don’t be stupid, John. Carry on.”


	218. Chapter 218

“John, did you do this?”  
“Probably. What am I meant to have done, love?”  
“Did you put this little book in my dressing gown pocket?”  
“Oh ha yes, I did. Do you like it?”  
“I do, yes. Very much. Where did you find a little book of staff paper?”  
“Book shop.”  
“Book shop, of course. How quaint.”  
“Nothing like a book, Sherlock.”  
“No, John, nothing in the world like a book. I’ve got over nine hundred on my tablet. And several more on my phone, as well.”  
“Have you got a tiny pad of staff paper on your tablet, Mister Clever?”  
“No.”  
“Well, then.”  
“I’ve got sheet music, though.”  
“But not your own sheet music.”  
“Could do. Once I’ve finished composing it. And there are composition apps.”  
“But you like to use pencil and paper. Until you’ve finished writing it, you can compose on the tiny book of staff paper that your very obliging husband got for you at a very nice book shop.”  
“Thank you, John. Very thoughtful.”  
“It’s not too small?”  
“No, it will do very well for when I’ve an idea that I don’t have time to try. I can carry it round in my pocket.”  
“Plus I know you like the smell of the binding.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“Who doesn’t? Anyway, I’ve seen you sniff them. Your new little pads when you rip the plastic off.”  
“Hmph, I didn’t know you’d spotted that.”  
“Well, I have. It’s gorgeous every time, lovely. You get this little grin. I love it. By the by, how’s the composing getting on?”  
“Bit stuck, actually.”  
“Shall I do something inspiring, then? Do you want me to shoot some one? Or wear green?”  
“Ha actually, John, I was thinking it might help to hear a Nice Thing. If you’ve thought of something you want to swap for it.”  
“We don’t need to swap, love. I’ll just read it to you.”  
“I want to swap, John. Let me give you something.”  
“All right. Hmm. Well love, let’s say we’ll swap the Nice Things for the piece you’re writing.”  
“That’s already for you, John; that’s not a swap. I was already giving it to you.”  
“Well we’ll say you write it a bit faster this time. Play it through for me sooner than three years from now.”  
“I think I can manage that.”  
“Shake on it, then. Right. Are you ready to hear it?”  
“Now?”  
“Yeah, we’ve a timetable, haven’t we? Got to inspire you, so you can finish quicker than three years from now.”  
“So we have. Yes.”  
“I think I know what’ll just do, too.”

…

Sherlock woke me with his playing again. Brought me out of a nightmare, actually. Not sure if he knew. Hope I didn’t yell. My room was so dark; I could still see it, so I went downstairs. He was still at the window, playing. Turned and nodded at me when I came in, but took no notice of me after that. Still. It was nice. Fell asleep in my chair. Woke with a blanket on me. Neck’s stiff as a board; it’s killing me. Worth it, though. That blanket. 

...

“That was lovely, John.”  
“I’m glad you liked it, love.”  
“It was just perfect.”  
“Do you think it’ll help?”  
“I do think so, yes.”  
“Good.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“My pleasure, love.”  
“I know. That’s the best part.”


	219. Chapter 219

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last bit is about a character from my other piece, "The Adventure of the Consulting Corpse." In both works, he is alluded to, but never seen.

"Well, that was fun, wasn't it, John?"  
"No, it was completely embarrassing. You don't have to look so delighted every time I make a total arse of myself."  
"You didn't make an arse of yourself, John. It was very entertaining."  
"Yeah, you look really entertained."  
"The way you kept edging between us. Ha, eventually you were standing directly in front of me, and he just carried on flirting and looked right over your head."  
"Ergh, yes. I remember."  
"He was persistent, wasn't he? Bit dim, though. Really dim, actually."  
"Incredibly dim."  
"Bit disappointed you kept your temper. I was rather hoping you'd get a bit sharp with him."  
"I'm really glad I didn't."  
"I'd never seen you jealous before, John. It's fascinating."  
"I wasn't jealous; I was annoyed that some idiot was trying to chat up my husband right in front of me. And you have seen me jealous. I nearly burst into flames every time you got anywhere near Irene Adler. Remember?"  
"It’s still hard to believe you were jealous of Irene."  
"Well, I was!"  
"Girlfriends are not my area."  
"Ha yes, love. I understand now."  
"I thought it was obvious."  
"Everything is obvious to you; you give me too much credit."  
"I suppose you worked it out eventually."  
"Very eventually."  
"Yes, it took you ages, didn't it? I dropped all sorts of hints."  
"You and your hints. Couldn't you just say? Make it easy?"  
"Oh John, when do I ever make anything easy?"  
"Not your area."  
"Ha, no. It isn't, is it?"

...

"Back again, witch?"  
"Always."  
"You look particularly wicked this evening."  
"Thank you."  
"I hope you're prepared for the pressing of your many, many wicked lives."  
"Remains to be seen, I suppose."  
"You are looking very dauntless. I suspect you are prepared."  
"Dauntless and wicked, eh? You've got your work cut out for you."  
"So I have. Fortunately, I am marvelous. So I hear."  
"Yeah, that's about right, love. Marvelous."  
"Flattery won't save you, witch."  
"I never flatter you, love. And I don't want to be saved."  
"That's lucky because nothing will save you now."  
"I should hope not."

...

“John, in here! Quickly!”  
“What?!”  
“Hush!”  
“Sherlock-”  
“Hush!”  
“What is it?”  
“John, shut up!”  
“Would you tell me why we’re hiding, please?”  
“One of Mycroft’s lackeys. Just there.”  
“Is he having us followed?”  
“It’s notJohn.”  
“Not what?”  
“NotJohn. My idiot assistant from when I was dead. Oh shut up laughing.”  
“Why should we hide from him?”  
“You really think I want to speak to him?”  
“You really think he wants to speak to you?”  
“Hmph. Fair point.”  
“Can I have a look at him, then?”  
“Fine, help yourself. Just try to stay hidden. If he spots you, he’ll recognise you.”  
“Oh, he is very like me. Bit more attractive, I suppose.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
“Ha, thanks love. Looking at him’s a bit spooky, actually. He’s got a jumper on. And I think I’ve got those shoes. Mycroft really did try to replace me, didn’t he? I’ll have to remember to be extra rude next time I see him.”  
“I hope I get to see that.”  
“Me too.”


	220. Chapter 220

“Sherlock, can I ask you a question?”  
“Of course, John. Did you have another one in mind, or were you just checking for permission in general?”  
“Haaa. You should be a professional jokester, you should. Anyway, I’ve been wondering lots lately what it was like for you before.”  
“Before I died?”  
“Yeah, well. Before you knew.”  
“Before I knew we were in love with each other?”  
“Yeah. That bit.”  
“Well. It was a bit muddled.”  
“Muddled?”  
“I was so slow and stupid, John. It’s rather embarrassing.”  
“I was just curious. You were so, erm. Opaque.”  
“Was I?”  
“Yes!”  
“Hmm. I suppose I was quite confused myself. Well. I didn’t realise at the time that I was confused.”  
“No?”  
“Haven’t we thoroughly covered what a buffoon I was then? I wanted you around all the time, I wanted to entertain you and I wanted you to entertain me, and even through my haze of idiocy, I knew I was wildly attracted to you. I just sort of tried to ignore it. It seemed like an unnecessary complication. I don’t know why I thought that pretending I didn’t fancy you was less complicated than admitting that I did. Haze of idiocy, I suppose.”  
“Ha, right. So what lifted the haze, then?”  
“Being away, actually. And coming back. I was so miserable without you, John. It surprised me. And I didn’t only want to talk to you. I wanted to see you and touch you and smell you. I thought that being apart would dampen all that, but it only got stronger. And then I came back, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it long.”  
“And I worked it out.”  
“So you did. Clever you. You were braver than I was, too.”  
“What? Kissing you? Hardly brave, love. Would have been brave not to, actually. You were begging me to kiss you. It was all over your face.”  
“Mmm, yes it must have been. I was desperate for it.”  
“I thought you were going to on your first morning back. Kiss me, I mean. You looked like you were about to the entire time.”  
“I should have done. The blonde hair made me bashful.”  
“Ha, you weren’t bashful; you flirted like mad. And I quite liked your hair blonde; you know that. Anyway, despite the sad lack of kissing, it’s still my best ever morning.”  
“Is it?”  
“Of course.”  
“Mine too.”  
“Ha well yes, love. Obviously.”

…

“So, my John.”  
“So, my lovely.”  
“Have you got a second best morning?”  
“Yes, actually. I’ve been thinking since we talked the other day.”  
“Have you?”  
“Yeah, I have.”  
“And what did you decide?”  
“The morning we got married, I think.”  
“You would say that.”  
“Now, don’t scoff. Not the ceremony, though that was lovely. You don’t know about this, actually, and it’ll be such fun to tell you.”  
“You’re going to drag it out, aren’t you? Cruel.”  
“I love it when you say things like that because I can do the nice thing--which is exactly what I want to do--and still be spiteful because it’s the opposite of what you predicted I’d do.”  
“Get on with it, John.”  
“All right, Mister Pushy. Just settle down. Anyway, morning of, you weren’t in bed when I woke up-”  
“Yes, I was!”  
“Sherlock, remember I’m telling you a bit you don’t know?”  
“Right. Sorry.”  
“Just shut up when I’m trying to be romantic.”  
“Sorry John.”  
“That’s more like it. So. You weren’t in bed when I woke up, which was a bit disappointing, but I lay there for a bit, waiting for you to come back, and I thought I heard you talking to yourself out somewhere in the flat. So I got out of bed, quiet-like and went to find you and you were in the sitting room, looking in the mirror over the mantel and saying, ‘I will’ to yourself over and over.”  
“I didn’t know you knew about that.”  
“Yeah, I know. Shut up, love; I’m still telling it.”  
“Sorry.”  
“Yeah, shhh. Anyway, I’d sort of been thinking the whole time between when you asked me and when we actually got married that, sorry Sherlock, but I’d been thinking that you’d change your mind or you’d get bored or there’d be a case or something. Something would derail us, and we wouldn’t go through with it. Sorry. Don’t look like that; I’m not done. Anyway, you looked so grave. I hadn’t realised you were taking it so seriously. But I saw your face in the mirror and I heard you, ha, sorry, I’m getting a bit. Right. Anyway I heard you practising your vows and I thought, ‘well that does it, doesn’t it? Whatever we manage to do or procrastinate today, Sherlock’s my husband.’ Oh, you’re a bit, too, aren’t you? Well give us a kiss, then. That should help.”  
“Yes, John. It always does.”


	221. Chapter 221

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Chapter 221! Thanks for sticking to me, my lovely loves! I really could not have gotten this far without your support and encouragement. I'm thrilled and flattered by every single one of you. I adore every comment I get, and I draw lots of inspiration from them (if you suspect you've given me an idea, you probably have). This has been such a special experience for me, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. I hope I can continue to entertain you.  
> Warmly,  
> apliddell
> 
> PS Happy birthday to Benedict Cumberbatch!  
> ...

John is having a bit of a bad day. Not the sort of bad day that needs sorting with a British Army Browning L9A1, either. Something less fun. A series of small annoyances. He’s got a cold, which he’s trying to ignore, and every now and again, he interrupts himself with a sneezing fit. He’s rather snarly for a few minutes after each sneezing fit. I suspect all this sneezing is giving him a headache. I’m trying not to smile too much. Difficult not to find John agreeable no matter how disagreeable he’s being. Infuriating of me (at least it is when he does it to me), so I’m trying to keep it to myself. He’s rattling around the kitchen at the moment; he’s just finished the dinner dishes and now he’s putting the kettle on. I want to go and watch him, but he won’t like me giggling over his temper. Instead I lie on the sofa, and smile to myself over the sounds of John making tea. Wonder idly if now would be a good time to tease him with a few notes of my new composition. There’s a little crash from the kitchen before I can decide. He’s dropped a mug by the sound or it.

“Fuck!”

“All right, John?” I get up from the sofa and go into the kitchen to look.

“Nothing Sherlock,” he calls as I enter the kitchen. “Oh. You’re right here. Get the broom will you, if you’ve come to stick your nose in.”

“All right,” I say turning quickly to grab the broom and hide my smile.

John holds out his hand for it, then watches, arms folded, as I sweep up myself. “I’ll go to bed, then,” he says when I’ve finished and disposed of the shards. “Take the kettle off the hob, will you?” I obey, then follow him into the bedroom. “Shadowing me, are you? I really am going to bed. Sorry to disappoint, if you’ve got any clever ideas about me entertaining you.”

Smile and say, “Clever ideas? That doesn’t sound like me.” John doesn’t smile, only rolls his eyes and gets undressed for bed. He leaves his things in a heap on the floor (unusual, but he does that sometimes when he’s ill), so I pick them up and begin to fold them.

“Stop tidying up after me,” he huffs.

Smile at the novelty of the sentence, then throw his things into the air like confetti (dodge a shoe as it descends), “My apologies, John.” John hides a smile with a scowl and gets into bed. He situates himself in the middle, but I squeeze in on my side anyway.

John sighs, “Can’t you just let me be in a mood?” he says. “Stop trying to cheer me. Let me indulge in irritability.”

“It can be rather satisfying,” I agree. I kiss his ear (he’s rather withholding his mouth by keeping his head at an odd angle on his pillow; that always stings a bit), and it must tickle because he shivers a bit. He sighs and shakes his head slightly, so I lie back on my pillows, trying not to be offended. Difficult not to push myself on John, especially when he’s so near (smelling lovely, too), but he seems quite genuinely annoyed with me. Not sure how to put it right, as (for once) I don’t deserve it. Interesting being the blameless party in this scenario. Thought I’d feel smugger. Only feel a bit fretful and hurt and very conscious of not showing either of these things.

John lies silent and rather rigid in the middle of the bed, and I start to wonder if he wants me to go. After several moments (a little over two minutes, which is a very short time and a very long time, depending on the context) of this discomfiting silence, John leans over, lifts my tee shirt and pushes his head under it. I chuckle in surprise.

"I can see why you like this," he says, muffled a bit by my shirt. "I think I feel a bit better."

"Good.” I begin to stroke what I can reach of his back. Still trying to pace myself; don't want to overwhelm him. Though he happily submits to it from me, John does not often initiate this particular sort of physical affection. Still trying to work out what it means. If anything. John might say that not everything means something in particular. Which is true, I suppose. Still it's difficult not to assign meeting to the things that John does, especially when they're to do with me.

John sighs (comfortably, not with annoyance, I think) and I try to lie still (he's breathing across my ribs and his hair is sort of in my armpit; it's all very ticklish). After a few moments, he pulls his head out and tucks it up almost right under my chin (lovely). "I think I'm ready to be cheered now," he says (lovely!).

"All right," put one hand in his hair (no, he doesn't like that; move it to the spot between his shoulder blades). "Would you like to hear something from the tin? I think it's under the bed."

He shakes his head (tickles, his hair is so soft), "No, love, not at the moment. I don't want to move, ha. Just pet me and tell me I'm lovely."

Smile and kiss the top of his head and say, "I think I can manage that easily enough." John smiles and opens his mouth to reply, then hastily pushes himself into a sitting position and sneezes vigorously six times. Then he glances down at me and glares. Playful glare this time, so I let myself laugh. John laughs, too. “Sorry love, what were you saying?”

“Mmm, can’t remember. The violence of that little emission quite derailed my train of thought.”

John snorts, “Right. Taste of your own medicine, then. You’re always derailing me with your violent emissions. I’ll make a suggestion, shall I?”

“Please do.”

John settles back down on the bed (moves slightly to allow me a bit more room) and tucks himself against my side (mm lovely) before replying, “You could tell me about your second best morning.”

“Mmm, that’s an excellent suggestion, John.” Pause to think and lay my cheek against his head.

We’re both quiet for a long moment (nearly three minutes) before John tilts his head back to look up at me (suspect he’d fallen asleep, actually) and says, “Well?”

“Been thinking,” I say. “There are lots of candidates.”

John chuckles. “Go on, then.”

“Well tonight I think I’ll say that-”

“Tonight? Does it change?”

“It changes a bit. Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes!”

“Hush, then.Tonight my best morning is the morning after the first time you kissed me.”

“Interesting. Tell me about that.”

“I’m trying to; you won’t shut up.” Pause to allow his giggles to run out before I continue. “It was lovely. I had been feeling still rather unsettled. Even after I came home, I still felt sort of unmoored. I had been craving for six months just to look at you again, and as soon as I did immediately began to feel that I didn’t have nearly all I that wanted. I thought perhaps I’d been so slow and wooden and stupid that I’d squandered you. It was. Lonely.” Sigh a little, then cringe at my own theatricality. John is silent, waiting for me to continue. Pause again to consider before I do. “Anyway, you were much, much cleverer than I was and you sorted it-” John interrupts to kiss me, which I am happy to allow. “And yes, ha. That’s what you did. Clever you.” Pause again to remember John holding me for the first time. How long ago it seems and still freshly astounding. John makes a little throaty impatient sound, and I chuckle. “Allow me a moment for fond recollection, John.”

“Recollect fondly on your own time,” John says, nudging me. “You’re meant to be cheering me right now.”

“True. Anyway, mm you kissed me and we passed the rest of the evening very, ah, agreeably and fell asleep on the floor in the sitting room. And when I woke up in the morning, you were lying against me, and you’d already woken up, but you waited until I was awake to get off the floor. And I thought, ‘Sticking to me, that’s good, then. I might get nearly as much of him as I want now.’”

“Ha, and did you?”

“Nearly.”

“Well you’ll be closer to your ideal levels now, won’t you love?”

“Yes and no. In some ways I’m much nearer, but in some, I’m just as far as ever.”

John opens his mouth, then thinks better of it, nods once and says, “I think I understand.”


	222. Chapter 222

"I'm getting a bit sick of that, John."  
"Yeah, so'm I."  
"Well curtail it, then."  
"I'm not doing it to entertain myself, love."  
"I didn't say you were."  
"I can't stop it just because you don't like it. I don't like it either."  
"Work a bit harder to keep them in."  
"Keep them in? Sherlock, I am not holding in my sneezes because they annoy you. That's ridiculous."  
"You keep startling me."  
"That's ridiculous, too. You know I've got a cold; you should be expecting them."  
"At least do it more quietly. You sound like a freight engine."  
"No, I don't. I sound like a man with a cold."  
"Your perspective is skewed."  
"There's another of your ironically ironic remarks, love."  
"Bite your tongue, John."  
"I thought you liked looking after me. Now's your moment."  
"I like looking after you when you've got a nice, quiet, sedate ailment. This one's made you noisy and drippy."  
"I don't like it any more than you do. Shut up and get me a cup of tea."  
"Noisy, drippy, and rude."  
"Well you're always rude and noisy. What's your excuse?"  
"The people with whom I choose to spend my time find it rather charming."  
"The people you choose to spend your time with? Just me, then."  
"And Molly."  
"Right. Where did we land on the tea?"  
"Fine, fine, I'll get it. Noisy, drippy, rude, lazy, and bossy."  
"So I'm turning into you, then."  
"Plus the drippiness."  
"Oh, I don't know. You're not always entirely undrippy."

…

You and John want to have a drink with me?  
~Molly~

 

What do you think?  
-SH

 

That you’ll moan and be rude and John’ll make you come along anyway, and we’ll all have fun.  
~Molly~

 

John’s ill; he won’t want to. He doesn’t drink when he’s ill.  
-SH

 

Come round for a cup of tea instead.  
-SH

 

Oh thanks. This afternoon?  
~Molly~

 

That’s fine.  
-SH

 

See you soon, then.  
~Molly~

 

Indeed.  
-SH

...

I’d been dozing on the sofa all afternoon, but I didn’t think I’d properly gone to sleep for any length of time, so I was quite surprised to be roused by a hushed conversation in the kitchen. I sat up.

Can’t imagine how he knew, but I heard Sherlock say at once, “Ah, he’s awake now. Shall we go and say hello?”

“Sherlock?” I called back, “Who’ve you got with you? I’m in my pyjamas.”

“Only me, John,” answered Molly as she and Sherlock entered the sitting room. Sherlock was in his pyjamas as well. At least he had his dressing gown on. Molly sat down the opposite end of the sofa, and Sherlock fetched a chair from the kitchen, so he could sit nearer than the armchairs.

“Well, this is cosy, isn’t it? Have you planned a slumber party without telling me, love?” Sherlock was very amused when I launched into a sneezing fit before he could answer.

Molly watched me sneeze, looking more and more embarrassed, then turned to Sherlock and said, "He really is ill."

"Yes, obviously. I told you before that he was ill."

“Then why’d you ask me to come round?”

“It was a compromise. Your suggestion was much worse.”

“All right, you two!” I said. “No need for all that.” I stood. “Excuse me for a moment, Molly. Let me just get my things on.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Come on, John. It’s only Molly.”

“That’s a bit rude, love. Anyway you can put your things on or I can, but we can’t both be swanning around the flat in our pyjamas when we have company. It’s-”

“Indecent?”

“Right in one, love.”

Sherlock grinned and rolled his eyes again, went to the door, got down his coat from the hook, and tossed it at me. “There. Cover yourself.”

I pulled it on and sat down. “I suppose it’ll do. Do I look ridiculous in this thing, Molly?”

Molly smiled, “Very dashing.”

Sherlock laughed a bit too heartily. “Tea, John?”

“Love some, thanks.” Sherlock went to the kitchen and returned. The mug was hardly even warmish when he handed it to me. “Sherlock, when did you make this?” I asked, setting the mug on the floor next to the sofa.

Sherlock looked at Molly, “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour,” she said.

Sherlock shrugged, “Three quarters of an hour ago. Approximately.”

“Ergh, Sherlock! Why did you offer that to me?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “Well I made it for you. I didn’t like to leave it sitting for ages.”

“You did leave it sitting for ages!”

“Right, if you two are just going to argue about tea, I’m going,” said Molly.

Sherlock gave her a theatrical glare, then grinned again, “What were we discussing before John woke up, Molly? Ah, I think we were talking about Neal, weren’t we?”

“You were talking about Neal? She won’t talk to me about Neal.”

Molly frowned, “We weren’t talking, he was badgering me.”

Sherlock slapped a hand to his heart, “Badger? Me badger? Mortally wounded, Molly. Mortally.” Molly laughed rather grudgingly.

“So why can’t we meet Neal?” I asked. “Just out of curiosity. Are we that horrifying?”

“No, you’re not horrifying. Well, a bit but so’m I.”

Sherlock laughed. “What then? Is he horrifying?” Molly blushed, and Sherlock looked delighted. “He’s horrifying? Oh please introduce us, Molly! I want to know what your brand of horrifying is.”

“You already do,” Molly muttered. “Neal is, erm. Well, he’s a fan.”

“A fan?” I said. “A fan of what?”

“A fan of mine?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. “Doesn’t work in IT, I hope.”

Molly and I glared at him in unison, and Molly said, “No, not in IT. He’s in publishing.”

“Oh publishing? Anything we’d-”

“What do you mean by fan?” Sherlock interrupted. “He reads the blog? Not that there’s been much to interest on there lately.”

“Ah, you are so generous with your little compliments, love.”

Sherlock ignored me. “Is he one of the loony fans who draws pictures of us and things? Or one of the really loony ones who-”

“No, he’s a normal person!” Molly said. “He’s just really interested in you. In your work, I mean. In you a bit as well, I suppose. I mean he just thinks you’re interesting. That’s why he’s, er, interested.”

Sherlock smirked, “Right. He’s interested because I’m interesting.”

Molly rolled her eyes, “See that’s why you’ve not met him yet. That stupid eyebrow face you’re doing right now.”

Sherlock ran a finger over each eyebrow in turn. “They seem to be in order. Wouldn’t suit Neal?”

“I think she’s referring to your condescending prat expression, love,”

Molly nodded, “John’s got it. He might be a bit starstruck, and I know you hate that. I just don’t want you to meet him, if you’re only going to be all snippy or all snide or all smirky.”

“Oh go on, Molly. Introduce us. I won’t be anything beginning with an S. Except Sherlock, I suppose. I’ll be that.”


	223. Chapter 223

"Stop that. John, stop it."  
"No."  
"No??"  
"You manage your biscuits, and I'll manage mine."  
"Pervert. I can hardly believe I'm married to a dunker."  
"Believe it."  
"You're getting crumbs in."  
"I like the crumbs."  
"Maniac."  
"Ha, you and your compliments."  
"I'm glad you know them when you hear them."  
"'Course I do."

...

"John, could you go to Tesco for me?"  
"Now?"  
"If it's convenient."  
"What do you need?"  
"Erm, privacy, mainly. And we're nearly out of coffee."  
"Privacy?!"  
"You've been hanging round the flat for days. I need a bit of time to think."  
"I've been ill!"  
"Yes, I know. Still."  
"I can't believe you want to get rid of me."  
"I need to work on my composition. I've had an idea for three days, and it's driving me mad that I haven't tried it yet."  
"Oh. Well I'll be back at work tomorrow."  
"Right. Tomorrow. I suppose another fourteen hours of pins and needles won't kill me."  
"Fine, fine, I'll go. What did you say we needed?"  
"Coffee. Shall I write it down?"  
"I can remember one thing."  
"Well. We'll see."  
"Remember the bit about how I'm doing you a favour?"  
"At the moment, you're only arguing with me."  
"God, you're charming."  
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, John."  
“You don’t think you charm me?”  
“Of course I do.”  
“Well then.”

...

What did you say we needed?

 

I knew you'd forget.   
-SH 

 

Haven't forgotten, actually. Coffee. Only wanted to annoy you. 

 

Trying to compose, John. Don't pester.   
-SH 

 

Pester? Me? That's rich. 

 

Switching my phone off, you nuisance.   
-SH 

 

Liar. 

 

Picking up some food as well. Want anything?

 

I think I fancy something hot. Sound good?

 

John, as flattering as all this clamour for my attention is, it rather defeats the purpose of your excursion.   
-SH 

 

Now shut up.   
-SH 

 

I quite liked that Thai place we went to the other day. Do they do takeaway?  
-SH 

 

Don't answer that.   
-SH 

 

I'm just enjoying the fact that you find even my texts irresistible. They do takeaway. 

 

Witchcraft. Please shut up now.   
-SH 

…

“So love.”  
“So John.”  
“How did you get on with your composition?”  
“I’ll have my hello kiss first, please. You do abuse the hello kiss window.”  
“Ha, sorry.”  
“Mmm, that’s better.”  
“So how-”  
“Is that my food?”  
“Yeah, have it. How-”  
“Could you get me a glass of water or a cup of tea or something? The food from this place makes my mouth tingle.”  
“Are you deflecting me?”  
“I’m thirsty.”  
“You don’t want to talk about your composing?”  
“John, I’m thirsty!”  
“Fine, be mysterious. There’s gratitude for you.”  
“I want to get you wondering, John. I’m hoping to bring about one of your dreams.”  
“So it went well, then. You’re pleased with yourself.”  
“Mmm, I’ll leave you to your deductions, John.”


	224. Chapter 224

“How did you turn that back on me, you witch?”  
“Sherlock, I’m sleeping.”  
“Sleeping and spellcasting.”  
“Shut up.”  
“Mmm, it was a lovely one, though. Would you like to hear about it?”  
“A lovely what?”  
“A lovely dream, John. Obviously.”  
“Did you have one of your violin dreams again?”  
“One of your violin dreams, John. I know you plant them in me, you witch.”  
“I haven’t planted anything in you.”  
“We both know that’s not nearly true.”  
“Ha fine, if you’re not going to shut up anyway, tell me about your dream. Did you play me?”  
“Oh yes.”  
“How was that?”  
“Mmm, it was excellent. Wish I could remember what I played, exactly.”  
“Was it a bit of your composition?”  
“I suspect it will be.”  
“You’ve just said you’ve forgotten it.”  
“Oh, I think it will come back to me.”  
“You’ve got a plan for bringing it back, I suppose.”  
“Mmm, I’ve usually got a plan, John. Getting drowsy. Fiddle with my hair and tell me I’m brilliant.”  
“I’ve got a question though.”  
“Well, you’ve come to the right man. At least fiddle with my hair while you-ah, perfect. Go on.”  
“When you have the dreams, how do you know it’s me? I mean how do you know you aren’t only dreaming of playing?”  
“Ha. Please.”  
“Really, though. How do you know?”  
“You think you can hide from me, John? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll always know you. Always.”  
“You mad thing.”  
“I do love it when you say that to me, John.”  
“I know, love.”  
“That’s why you say it.”  
“Ha well. That’s one reason.”

...

"Sound the trumpets; strike the lyres and the lutes! My muse has arrived! Hello, John."  
"Hullo love. I'm your muse, am I?"  
"Of course you are."  
"I wear lots of hats on your account, don't I love?"  
"Figuratively, thank god."  
"Ha, right. Figurative hats."  
"Let's see. You're my blogger, my doctor-"  
"Well-"  
"Shut up, John. You're my doctor. Blogger, doctor, muse, witch, personal bodyguard-"  
"Housekeeper."  
"It's your house too, John."  
"Tea boy."  
"Well, that's an exaggeration."  
"PR agent."  
"Hardly. You make me sound ridiculous every chance you get."  
"Freckle accountant, cook, masseur, and husband."  
"Mmm the last one's my favourite."  
"Mine, too. Muse is a close second, though. Well, Orpheus, shall I put the kettle on?"  
"Orpheus? Hmph."  
"You don't like Orpheus?"  
"If he'd kept his wits about him, he'd have had Eurydice back."  
"Ah, well, We can't all be Sherlock Holmes. Not everyone has your talent for resurrection, love."  
"Indeed. Good thing, too. World's overcrowded enough as it is."  
"As your PR agent, I'm going to advise you to keep that particular sentiment to yourself, love."

…

John,

I haven’t been able to sleep tonight. Well. Didn’t like to try for long for fear my fidgeting would wake you. I woke you last night, so I don’t like to wake you again. Though as it’s just started to rain, I think I’ll try again. The sound of the rain is nearly as soporific as the sound of your sleeping, John. You make a little racket in your sleep, John. Did you know? You breathe very, very deeply. It’s inspiring. You’re miraculously relaxed. Between you and the rain, I’ll be well-lulled.

Must refresh myself tonight, John. I intend for us to take a very long walk tomorrow. You can walk for ages before you get tired, so I’ll need my stamina. I hope it’s still raining in the morning. You smell lovely after you’ve walked a long time in the rain. I wish I could show you. It soaks into your coat a bit, but not nearly enough. Your jumper is sometimes saturated to a satisfactory degree.

Thinking of this is making me very impatient for the morning, so I’ll leave it here before I set myself prowling again. I’ll wrap round you and claim my lulling. Perhaps it’ll be one of those mornings where I wake with the smell of your sweat on my lips. I hope so.

S


	225. Chapter 225

I thought we were having dinner? I'm at the flat. Are you hiding?

 

Sorry. Just saw the time. Been stuck in traffic for ages.   
-SH 

 

Feeling quite omnicidal again.   
-SH 

 

Trying to use very mild language, as I suspect even you would be alarmed by the level of rage I am feeling at the moment.   
-SH 

 

Really? Are you alarming yourself?

 

Nearly.   
-SH 

 

And I'm famished.   
-SH 

 

You'll feel better once you've eaten. 

 

Yes, I know that!  
-SH 

 

Uh oh. Exclamations marks. That must be very potent rage. 

 

It would curl your hair.   
-SH 

 

I think I'd like that, actually. I like curly hair. 

 

I know you do, but I think you might look a little odd with it.   
-SH 

 

I suppose I can enjoy it enough when it's growing out of your head. 

 

Yes, so we can.   
-SH 

 

Well I'll enjoy your hair, and you can enjoy me enjoying your hair. 

 

Something to look forward to.   
-SH 

 

You are very talented, John.   
-SH 

 

Feeling better, then?

 

Yes, a bit. Back below 30% omnicidal.   
-SH 

 

Wow, that is quite an achievement on my part. 

 

Yes, so it is. I'm glad you appreciate its magnitude.   
-SH 

 

Another of my talents, I suppose. 

 

Indeed.   
-SH 

...

"Oh hullo love. I thought you'd just text me when you were near the flat. Aren't we having dinner?"  
"I'm still in need of a mood adjustment, and I was promised I could enjoy you enjoying my hair."  
"I thought you were famished."  
"This takes precedence."  
"Well, sit down then, so I can reach you properly, you giant."  
"Giant? Your perspective is skewed."  
"So I've heard. How's that?"  
"Bit harder, please. Ah, perfect."  
"You won't fall asleep, will you?"  
"It's only half past seven, John. We haven't even had our dinner yet"  
"Well, you get sleepy when I do this to you."  
"No, I get relaxed. There's a difference."  
"Feeling relaxed now?"  
"Mmmmm yes, thank you."  
"You sound sleepy."  
"Recalibrate your ears, John. What you hear is the sound of a profoundly contented detective."  
"Ah right. Silly of me."  
"Indeed. Oh wait, hang on. I'm wrong."  
"Sorry what? You're what?"  
"Hush, John. I'm not profoundly contented; I'm only very contented."  
"Are you inviting me to ratchet up your contentment?"  
“If you would.”  
“All right, love. I think I can manage that. What do you suggest?”  
“Let’s do without my suggestions. You’re much cleverer at managing me than I am. I am at your command, John. Ratchet me however you like.”


	226. Chapter 226

I can't stop my knee bouncing. Well. I could, but I can't. John's next to me on the sofa, and he wants to put his hand on my knee to quiet it, I can tell. He doesn't because he knows it wouldn't steady me. I'll have to wait this out. Feel a bit nauseated as well. John would say it's because I haven't eaten. Unintuitive but likely true. Haven't even the attention span for a cup of tea at the moment. There are two cold ones sitting on the coffee table. When I asked for the second, I'd forgotten that I'd already abandoned the first. John didn't mention it. He made me another, though he knew I was not likely to finish it. Not sure I even tasted it, actually. He still hasn't mentioned it. Shouldn't have had coffee this morning, though I know the caffeine can't still be affecting me; that was hours ago.

Haven't felt so restless in ages. We've not had a good case on in a while. Turned one down last week, but rather wish I'd accepted it now. Was dull, though. So dull (adultery). Wouldn't have helped, I suppose. Get up from the sofa, stretch and go over to the smashables to poke around a bit. There's a vase on top with a broken lip. I swept that over with my dressing gown while I was pacing this morning (not sure how on earth a vase made its way into our flat; a gift perhaps, only sensible explanation for it) but I let John blame Skip. Too indolent at the time to open my mouth.

Pick the vase out of the rest of the rubbish and hold it up, "I broke this. Rule one," I add to explain the announcement.

"It's fine," John says. Knew he would; don't bother to reply.

Put on the safety glasses, take my hammer (perfect hammer; John got it for me, bless him) and a paper sack out of the chest, and go over to the kitchen table to smash the vase. John winces on the first strike (I'm minding my fingers of course, but I can see him in my peripheral vision) which is admittedly a little harder than it need be. Smash the whole thing nearly to a powder a little too quickly. It helps a bit. Only a bit and only for a moment. Sigh (comes out more like a groan) and throw myself at the sofa again. I jostle John rather severely, but he raises his right arm to shoulder height and smiles at me. An invitation. I slump against him, and he puts his arm round me. I drop my head onto his chest (he smells lovely but a bit too citrus; he must be anxious), and he pats my shoulder. Feels nice. Wish it soothed me. Sigh again, softer this time. My mobile goes. I haven't got it on me, but I can hear it buzzing nearby against a hard surface.

"It's on the mantel," says John.

Untangle myself from him without replying and get my phone from the mantel, hoping it's Lestrade or a client. Mycroft. He’s been pestering me quite a bit lately. Something to do with my trip to Bart’s roof with John, no doubt. I will never discuss that with him, nor anybody. Haven’t taken any of his calls. Drop the phone toward the mantel, but it bounces off and falls into the fireplace.

Ignore it and go back to the sofa. Try to curl sideways onto John's lap. Half successful. Good enough, since I'll only be on my feet in a moment again anyway. John puts one hand in my hair, but I'm too tense to allow it. Overstimulating. I shake him off. He sighs. "Want to have a walk, love? Nearly the time for it anyway." I shake my head, turn over onto my face and cover my head with my arms. John puts his hand on my back. Shake him off again.

He goes a bit tense, so I half turn and try to smile at him. "Sorry. Not right now." Kiss his knee as a sort of apology. He sighs again, so forlornly that I roll onto my back, prop my head on his lap and look up at him. He wants to touch me again; I can tell. He doesn’t (bless him).

Scrubs one hand through his own hair instead, looks away for a moment then back down at my face, “You’re really miserable, aren’t you?” he asks quietly.

Of course I am. Obviously. Can’t exactly tell him that, nor exactly lie. I shrug. “I’m not very comfortable.”

“What can I do?” he asks. “I want to help.”

“Nothing for it,” I say (not too gruffly, I hope). “It’ll pass on its own. Or we’ll find something good to do.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to have our walk?” John offers rather fretfully, “or we could play a game or-”

“Stop it, John,” I interrupt. “I know what my options are. I don’t need you listing.” His face goes carefully blank. Would be agonising, if I weren’t in such a state. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“It’s fine.” His voice is blank, too.

“It was much worse when I had to do this alone,” I tell him. He reaches down and runs one finger along the back of my hand. A rather timid invitation. Can’t resist such a plaintive appeal. I catch his hand and squeeze it. “Thank you, John.”

“I wish I could do something for you.”

“I know you do, John. That helps.” It does, too.


	227. Chapter 227

"Oh John, this is a good one!"  
"Yes, I know."  
"Perfect timing, too."  
"Ha yes, so it is."  
"Are you excited, John?"  
"Very."  
"You don't seem it."  
"Ah, well you're excited enough for both of us. I'm trying to keep you calm. Not that I don't enjoy seeing you dance about like that."  
"I'm not dancing, John."  
"You are, love. Just a bit."  
"Let the record show that I quibble with your terminology."  
"The record always shows that."  
"Good. I hope you're prepared to be impressed, John. I shall work very hard to show off for you."  
"Oh, this is about me, is it? Generous of you."  
"John, hadn't we established that everything I say or do is in compliment to you?"  
"Wait now, don't go pinning all your nonsense on me."  
"You're very fond of my nonsense."  
"True but I don't deserve the blame or the credit."  
"Sorry, John. It's been decided that my life's work is to pay you tribute."  
"Has it? Where was I?"  
"Your input was not thought necessary at the time."  
"Right. Silly of me. Kiss for luck, then? As this is all in my honour."  
"I don't need luck, but I'll have the kiss."  
"Sorry. Can't have one without the other."  
"Fine, I'll take the luck as well."  
"Don't do me any favours."  
"No, I want it."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes, please. I'll have the luck."  
"Oh all right then. As you ask so nicely."

...

“John, that was brilliant!”  
“Thank you, and you’re welcome.”  
“The whole of it, not just the coat cupboard bit.”  
“Ha yes, I know what you meant.”  
“I mean the coat cupboard bit was-”  
“Mmm, yes. So it was.”  
“But the other bit.”  
“Ha right. My pleasure.”  
“Your whole face changes when you draw your gun, John. Did you know? And your voice goes quite low and soft. You’re just terrifying. It’s fantastic.”  
“I terrify you, do I?”  
“Not exactly, but you would, if I didn’t have you right at my shoulder.”  
“Ha thanks, love; that’s flattering. Will this help along your composing?”  
“Yes, I think it will.”  
“Good. Get on with it, then.”

...

"Oh my god! Sherlock! What are you doing?"  
"Sorry Molly. Forgot where I was for a moment."  
"What was that?"  
"My phone."  
"Why've you just hurled your phone across the room?"  
"Hardly across the room. Only a couple of metres. My interfering prig of an older brother won't stop phoning me."  
"And you don't want to talk to him?"  
"Never."  
"Mightn't it be important, if he keeps ringing?"  
"Oh he saw John and me doing something recently, and he thinks he's got the right to know all about it."  
"Doing something? Something illegal?"  
"No. Something personal, Miss Nose."  
"Oh. Erm my, that is interfering."  
"Ergh, not like that. You do let your imagination run away with you."  
"Well you know there's a button on the side of your phone that lets you silence it so it'll ring out without annoying you."  
"Yes, thank you Molly. Your assistance has been invaluable, as always."  
"Better than smashing your phone to bits every time your brother calls you."  
"Oh I throw my phone all the time; it doesn't do it any harm. Not much anyway."  
"Better than startling me by throwing your phone every time your brother calls you."  
"Ah, the self-interest emerges."  
"You scared me! I split my slide."  
"Oh. Sorry."  
"Just. Hush."  
"Ha right. Sorry."  
"This is a workplace."  
"Yes, Molly, my apologies."  
“Mind you don’t let it happen again.”  
“Perish the thought.”

...

“Ha, it makes me feel a bit nostalgic when you look at me that way, love.”  
“I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”  
“Are you against nostalgia?”  
“Sentiment.”  
“That really makes me feel nostalgic.”  
“Oh shut up, John.”  
“Never.”  
“What exactly about my look is provoking this nostalgia, John?”  
“Don’t you know?”  
“Don’t be coy; it’s infuriating.”  
“Mmm, but you like me infuriating you.”  
“Spit it out, John. Get on with it, I mean.”  
“Ha, nice amendment, love. Anyway. You look at me smugly. But not like you’re smug about your own cleverness. Like you’re smug about me.”  
“Of course I am smug about you, John.”  
“Ha yeah, of course. Quite right, too. Still it was nice, you know. Then. To catch little glimpses of it. You know?”  
“I think I do.”


	228. Chapter 228

"What are you sniggering at, love?"  
"I just enjoy seeing you carry a cup of coffee as if it's a vial of acid."  
"It's hot, Sherlock. I don't want to burn myself."  
"Erm, unless you've made some rather dubious modifications to the coffeemaker, you're not going to burn yourself with that cup of coffee."  
"Want to test that theory?"  
"Are you threatening me?"  
"Mm generally."  
"Actually. You've just given me an idea, John."  
"Er, love, if you've got an idea that's to do with pouring hot coffee on either of us, you'd better give it up now because it is not happening."  
"No, I just wondered how seriously a person could be injured in the flat. What of our possessions could be used as weapons, and how much damage they could inflict."  
"You mean you haven't had that worked out for ages already?"  
"Well, not formally. Not methodically. Quite an oversight, now I think of it."  
"You are not going to test on yourself. Right?"  
"Of course not, John. Don't be stupid. That's not at all methodical."  
"Right. Well, I suppose you'll be attending to that right away."  
"As soon as I've finished my coffee."

...

"Fuck."  
"Yes."  
"Mrs Hudson will have our skulls for sewing baskets."  
"Two sewing baskets?"  
"Well yours'll be a sewing basket, and mine'll be a knitting basket."  
"She doesn't knit; she crochets. Anyway a human skull is too small. Perhaps a bison-"  
"Sherlock. Not the point."  
"Right."  
"I suppose we should ring the builder."  
"I'll do it. He likes me."  
"Ha, yes he does."  
"I’ve chopped something unsuitable."  
"So you have. To say the least. Well this was a proper accident."  
"I knew you'd understand."  
"You're not going to mischop again, are you?"  
"No, John."  
"All right then. I can't stay cross with you, my lovely. Look at you embarrassed."  
"I feel stupid."  
"Ha, it was a bit stupid to lodge a hatchet in a window sash."  
"I was trying to-"  
"Yes, I know. Don't tell me again; you'll only upset me. Right, well give us a kiss then. Last one before Mrs Hudson kills us I suppose."  
"Nice knowing you, John."  
"Ha, yes. Nice knowing you as well, Sherlock."

...

“You look odd.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“I mean what’s that look?”  
“What look?”  
“The look you’re wearing now. Why are you looking like that?”  
“Because you’re asking me silly questions.”  
“Well if you’ll stop deflecting, the silly questions will be over and you can go back to pulling odd faces. Just tell me, please, what the odd face means.”  
“It’s stupid.”  
“Oh, I like stupid very much. Go on.”  
“I’ve got a new trick for getting to sleep and sometimes it comes on me suddenly when I’m not trying to sleep.”  
“And what’s that, love?”  
“I don’t like to say.”  
“Go on then, Sherlock.”  
“Well, you remember how I said I’d like to dream I belonged to you?”  
“That you want to be my pen or an eyelash or something, you maniac, you? Yeah, I remember that.”  
“Well, to help me fall asleep, I imagine I’m your jumper.”  
“My what?”  
“I imagine I’m your jumper.”  
“Right. And what does that entail?”  
“Well, I start out folded in the drawer-”  
“I hang my jumpers in the wardrobe.”  
“I know, but you shouldn’t. It warps the shoulders. I start out folded in a drawer and it’s dark and there are other jumpers about-”  
“Ooo-er.”  
“John, you’re making me tell you this. If you want to hear it, just shut up and let me tell it to you.”  
“Fine, fine, go on. You’re in the dark drawer with your jumper mates.”  
“And you open the drawer and take me out and pull me on--that bit’s lovely-- and I’m all softly wrapped round you and your smell is just soaking into me.”  
“You mad, lovely thing. Why’s all that got you looking so odd?”  
“What did you just do, John?”  
“I put my-oh. Jealous?”  
“Shut up.”  
“If I could wear you, I would do.”  
“I know.”  
“This is one of our most disturbing conversations, I think.”  
“Worse than you dreaming of being my violin?”  
“Well, that’s not, like, a fantasy. It just comes; I don’t ask it to come. It’s just there sometimes.”  
“This is not a fantasy, John. It’s just a calming visualisation to help me get to sleep. Like my mind palace helps me store information. You just triggered it outside of-”  
“The drawer?”  
“Infuriating man.”  
“Would you feel better if I gave you a nice lint-brushing?”  
“Oh, do shut up, John.”  
“Never.”


	229. Chapter 229

“My lovely creep.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You're stalking me again, aren’t you love?”  
“No, I'm not. I'm at the flat, John.”  
“Liar. Where did you get that silly coat?”  
“I don't know what you mean, John. I'm at home.”  
“Rule one, love. Give it up; you've been spotted.”  
“Oh all right then. What's silly about the coat?”  
“Ha nothing really, I suppose. Makes you look like you work at a bank.”  
“It's a disguise, John.  
“Right. Where did you get that thing?”  
“Charity shop.”  
“I don't think I've seen you wear it before.”  
“I've just bought it five minutes ago.”  
“What you mean while you were following me?”  
“Yes.”  
“That is impressive.”  
“Well, I must keep challenging myself. You're actually quite difficult to follow for long, John. You generally recognise me; you know me so well. That's why I mostly practise on you.”  
“Who else do you practise on?”  
“Molly sometimes, though I feel a bit odd about that. I keep accidentally seeing her on dates.”  
“The infamous Neal.”  
“Indeed. Lestrade as well. He's sadly easy to follow, so not him very often. Mainly when I actually need to spy on him because he's trying to withhold a case from me.”  
“The nerve.”  
“Indeed. Sometimes I follow Mycroft, but he always spots me at once. Anyway I'm avoiding him at the moment.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. He's being really officious about the whole roof situation.”  
“He's probably worried about you.”  
“Unlikely and unnecessary.”  
“It's all right with me if you tell him about it, love.”  
“Not with me.”  
“Right. Well it's up to you.”  
“I know.”  
“Anyway. Want to have lunch with me today?”  
“Yes, John. Sounds lovely.”  
“Well, see you in a few hours then.”  
“If I can wait that long. I may hang round the surgery and peer in the windows of your office.”  
“No, you won’t. Veto.”  
“Knew you'd say that.”  
“Just trying to entertain me with nonsense, then. Love that about you.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“See you in a bit, love.”  
“Yes, John. In a bit.”

...

“Hullo love. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”  
“Hello John. Difficult morning? Some one’s been sick on you, I see.”  
“How did you know that?”  
“You've changed your shoes; that’s suggestive. And there’s a little splash of it on the side of your trouser leg. Outside of your left ankle”  
“Ah, right. Well-spotted, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Yes, difficult morning. Definitely ready for a break. All set for lunch?”  
“Yes, shall we?”  
“Definitely. Oh, just out of curiosity, what have you done to the receptionist?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Nothing?”  
“Well. I congratulated her on her pregnancy.”  
“Sherlock!”  
“I didn’t know it was a secret! It’s so obvious.”  
"Obvious?"  
"The swelling in her face and breasts, the way she stands and walks. Obviously pregnant. Doctor. Doesn’t she realise? She's about five months along, I'd say. She must realise."  
"You can't just go round telling people they're pregnant, Sherlock."  
"I didn't know it was news. Well, better late than never, I suppose."  
"You really don't see what's wrong with this?"  
"Bit awkward, I suppose."  
"Are you going to apologise?"  
"Apologise?! That's your answer to everything. Why should I apologise?"  
"Gave her a bit of a shock, didn't you?"  
"I didn't mean to."  
"Well, tell her that."  
"What would be the point?"  
"Erm, to be pleasant."  
"I've not been unpleasant!"  
"How would you feel if some one you hardly knew offhandedly pointed out that you were pregnant? At your office."  
"I'd feel like getting away from the lunatic because I've not got the appropriate anatomy for pregnancy."  
"You know what I mean. Empathy and all that."  
"I'm very empathetic, John. I generally know what people are feeling from their expression and their body language."  
"Sympathy, then."  
"Right. Bit trickier."  
"Ha yes, love but it'll be good for you to practise, won't it?"  
"If you say so, John."  
"Well, I do."  
"Fine, fine. I'll apologise. Don't know what you'd have me say, though. 'Sorry you're pregnant'?"  
"No, of course not! Don't mention pregnancy. Just apologise for putting your foot in and say you didn't mean to embarrass her. And go on a bit about what an arse you are."  
"You seem to have got a speech all worked out; perhaps you should do it."  
"That'd be completely stupid because I'm not the one who’s been an arse. Shall I write it down for you?”  
“Don’t patronise, John.”  
“Seemed like you wanted the help is all.”  
“No, I mean I can remember it.”  
“Ha, right. Of course you can.”


	230. Chapter 230

“I do love catching you in my jumpers.”  
“I was chilly, and it was at hand. You’ve a habit of leaving your things laying about.”  
“Me?”  
“Yes.”  
“Me, John Watson?”  
“You, John Watson, yes.”  
“I leave my things laying about? Me? John Watson?”  
“What are you on about, John?”  
“I’m sure one of us must be confused.”  
“You’re the one asking all the questions.”  
“Right, I suppose it’s silly to question some one so obviously delirious.”  
“I was just telling myself the same thing.”  
“Ha. Anyway. You look sweet in my jumper, love.”  
“Bite your tongue, John.”

...

John’s new piece has been my constant companion these last few weeks. Nearly moreso even than my John himself. It thrums in my brain as I fall asleep, and I wake humming it to myself before I’ve even lifted my head to kiss John good morning. I’ve been tapping bits of it on every surface at hand (sometimes not realising it until John taps back)(!)(lovely!) I carry my little book of staff paper round with me everywhere now (John's smile when he sees me pull it out)(mmm). I feel quite restive, but deliciously so. It's the elation of inspiration, of taking the constant whizzing and whirring of my mind and forcing it into beautiful order. And for my John. In tribute to my John. Marvelous (as John would say).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been a bit patchy lately. Haven't forgotten about you, darlings! Doing some planning, actually. Stay tuned!


	231. Chapter 231

“Sherlock, I need to see you at once. Please come to the house. And bring John. I’ll send a car.”  
“Mycroft, I’m perfectly well able to arrange transport to the places I actually want to visit.”  
“Sherlock. Please.”  
“That’s a decent enough start, but I think you can be politer still, if you give it a go.”  
“Sherlock, stop. Please. Not right now. Mummy’s died, Sherlock. Yesterday. I need you to come to the house right away. Will you come? Sherlock?”  
“Yes. I’m coming.”

...

“John?”  
“What is it, love? I’m working.”  
“John, I need you to come home, please. At once. This isn’t a game or a trick or a case. Please come.”  
“Now?”  
“Yes, immediately.”  
“Everything all right?”  
“Not exactly.”  
“Are you hurt? Are you in danger?”  
“No, nothing like that.”  
“All right, well. We’ll sort it, love. I’m on my way.”  
“Right. See you in a bit.”

...

“Hullo love. Oh. All right? You look peaky. Are you ill?”  
“Fine. Well. I’m not ill. My mother’s just died.”  
“Your mother? Oh god. I’m so sorry, love.”  
“Yes. We’ve got to go and see Mycroft at the house. Stay with him, actually. For a bit. Few days. The, ah, the service is tomorrow, and then our solicitor is coming round the next day to discuss the estate. So, we’ve. We’ve got to stay for all that. Erm, I texted Molly to ask her to look in on the cats already.”  
“Sherlock, take a deep breath, love.”  
“Right.”  
“Shall I put the kettle on? Have we got time?”  
“Ha no, John. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just a bit agitated. I’ve not had the chance to pack yet. Could you?”  
“Of course. Will you just sit down for me? Sit down for a moment, all right? Stop pacing.”  
“The pacing is helping, John. I’m just. Trying to think.”  
“Right. Well. If it helps.”  
“He’s sent a car. Mycroft. He’s sent his car. It’ll be here any moment. So. I’ll just wait in front of the flat, all right? I need some air. Come down when you’ve packed, all right? I’ll meet you downstairs.”  
“Right, love. I’ll be down in just a moment.”

...

“You thought she was dead already, I suppose. My mother.”  
“Well. Yes, actually.”  
“I meant you to. Sorry.”  
“You meant me to?”  
“I didn’t like to tell the actual situation. I will now, I suppose.”  
“If you want to, love. You don’t have to.”  
“I do have to. I’d rather you heard it from me than from. Mycroft.”  
“Right.”  
“Ah. Erm. I’m not sure where to start.”  
“In your own time, love.”  
“Right. Am I squeezing too hard? Your fingers are turning colours.”  
“It’s fine, love. It’s nothing. Squeeze away.”  
“All right. Hem. Erm. My mother never liked me. I see you want to contradict me, John. Don’t. It’s incontrovertible. My mother never did like me. I was a disruption right from my first moments alive. She loved me, I suppose, in that mammalian compulsion way. But. It’s not quite the same, is it? Right. Anyway. She has dementia. Had. As it all progressed and she lost more of the world, she disliked me more and more. Couldn’t help it, I suppose. Something fundamentally disagreeable about me. To her anyway. Eventually she wasn’t sure who I was but she was very sure she wanted me nowhere near her. She’d cry at the sight of me. I, erm. I’ve been obliging her for four years now. I. I’m sorry I never told you.”  
“Oh Sherlock.”   
“Please don’t look at me like I’m a tragedy, John.”  
“I don’t think you’re a tragedy. I only wish I’d always known you, my lovely.”  
“So do I. Only I don’t know that you’d have taken to me, if we’d met before we did.”  
“You’re not going to convince me you’ve not been a wonder your whole life, love.”


	232. Chapter 232

When we arrive at at Mycroft's, we're let in by the bloodless housekeeper and escorted to his study at once. It used to be our father's study. Mine and Mycroft's. Smells the same. Wood polish, leather, old paper, tobacco smoke, and a hint of whiskey. Romantically intellectual masculinity. Mycroft does love his set-pieces.

Mycroft is sat in a high-backed leather chair by the fire. There's a tea service laid out for three on a trolley situated in the center of the ring of chairs, but he's holding a tumbler of amber liquor (whiskey, likely) and staring into it as if crystal gazing.

He doesn't look up as we enter, even when the housekeeper murmurs, "Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson, sir."

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft answers absently. The housekeeper backs out of the doorway and melts into the corridor. I edge into the room, John shuffling along at my elbow. Can't shake the sense that I'm about to be reprimanded. "Won't you sit?" Mycroft suggests, waving at the chairs that have been brought to the hearth for us (no divots in the carpet at the feet, as there are under his)(shut up; stop deducing).

I don't want to sit, but I do so that John will. Mycroft crowds his glass onto the tea tray and pours out for us. It makes me think of our little adventure at the palace, and I glance at John. He's holding back a little smirk. Thinking my thoughts. I want to squeeze his hand. Don't want Mycroft to see, and feel rather ashamed that I care anything about that. Slide my foot sideways along the carpet until my shoe bumps John's. He bumps me back at once, and I feel foolishly grateful. Tap a bit of his piece on the arm of my chair, and he tilts his head toward me and smiles.

Mycroft is watching us. I scowl at him, then feel immediately ridiculous. He half-smiles at me. He loves it when I'm childish. It comforts him, I suppose. Let the world be ever in disarray, his younger brother is sure to seize all opportunities to be pointlessly intractable. That is Mycroft's order.

John clears his throat and takes a sip of his tea. I do the same, grateful for the good example. Mycroft's half-smile broadens. I don't know why I should find that so infuriating. Wish I had my violin. Should have brought it with me. Tap on the arm of my chair again. John taps back. Mycroft looks rather as if he may laugh (Mycroft doesn’t really laugh, but he does occasionally make a sound that indicates amused disdain). Glance at John. He looks calm. My John. My steadiness. I smile. John clears his throat again. He's ready to press on. He loses patience with our little tiffs rather quickly. That's good, though. Keeps me focused. Mycroft is so talented at distracting me.

"What happened?" John asks quietly. I hadn't even thought to wonder.

Mycroft shakes his head, "She was eighty years old, Doctor Watson. She died."

"Seventy-nine," I say before I can stop myself.

"Yes. Thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft says then mutters, "Precision at all costs or we are lost to barbarism."

John shifts in his chair. He wants to ask more about Mummy, I can tell. Doesn't want to be pushy.

"Nothing in particular precipitated?" I ask.

"Pneumonia," Mycroft says quietly, reaching for his whiskey again. "I would have told you that she was failing, if I'd been afforded the opportunity." John shifts again. I can nearly hear the angry retorts he's biting back. He crosses his legs and takes another sip of his tea. I put my hand on the arm of his chair, and he puts his on top of mine at once (his cup clinks against the saucer rather sharply; he set it down very abruptly). Out of the tail of my eye, I see him give a tight little nod. Not even sure he knows he's done it. I must be imagining that Mycroft looks rather wistful. John's told me that not everyone admires us as much as I think they do.

"I suppose you expect me to feel ashamed of avoiding you," I say.

Mycroft sips his drink before he replies, "I never expect you to feel ashamed of anything."

"That's not necessary," John says before I can answer.

"You're out of your depth, John," Mycroft tells him. "This is nothing to do with you."

"If it's to do with him, it's to do with me!"John answers angrily. John Watson, ever my champion. I nod silently. I can't speak.

Mycroft sighs, "Touching." He really does look wistful. I'm not imagining it. I am not eager to attribute tenderness to my brother. Mycroft drains his drink and sets his glass down on the tea tray. "I imagine that's all the fraternising any of us will be able to bear until dinner. I've some phone calls to attend to. Please make yourselves at home. Sherlock, perhaps you'd like to show John around your former home. He may find it interesting. It'll give him a bit of, ah, insight." Mycroft rises without waiting for an answer and exits through a side door. As soon as it's slid shut behind him, John pulls me to him by my sleeve and kisses me (bit roughly, I bite my tongue). When he lets go of me, he's breathing a bit heavily, and he shakes his head.

"I know," I say. "Well then. Fancy a tour? Want to add a bit more to your Sherlock Holmes encyclopaedia?"

           John smiles rather grimly, "Always."


	233. Chapter 233

The house is just as silent and over-sized as I remembered. John took my hand as we got up from our chairs, and he’s been holding it since. Buoying. The corridors are rather dark, and I’m pleased to discover that I don’t remember my way around very well. Exorcising it. The first room we look into is the guest room where our things have been put for us. The best guest room. I've never stayed here before. John had it on my first day back in England, and I had the second best. Despite being a novelty to me, the room is not particularly interesting. I do appreciate that we are sharing it this time. The last time we were here, we shared the second best. Eventually. John came to find me. Thrilling.  
I’m fairly sure Mycroft is lurking nearby and I’d rather not bump into him, so I lead John upstairs without bothering with the lounge or the dining room or kitchen. I make automatically for my (former) bedroom. John knows where we are at once, with no explanation, as soon as we enter.

“This is you, yeah?” he says with a little grin.

I smile, “Got my handprint, has it?”

John grins a little more broadly, “Just a bit.”

It really does. Still smells of rosin and white spirits and formaldehyde (overlaid with the scent of dust and slowly decaying paper). There’s a really excessive number of preserved insects collected on most surfaces. One of my youthful hobbies. Going to take a few of these back to the flat, actually. Some are quite good. Won’t be taking any of the spiders, though. John is carefully avoiding looking at those, though he seems rather taken with a little case of ladybirds. Must not forget those. There’s a music stand untidily covered in dusty sheet music next to the window. I’ve always liked to play while looking out of the window. That window looks onto the garden. I’d watch the bees as I practised. There are quite a few of those preserved as well. Definitely want to take a couple of those.

John walks eagerly into the room and begins to look around. I hover near the doorway to watch him. He starts at the bookshelf by the door, pulling a couple of books and several logbooks (I have been an avid experimenter since first I learned about the scientific method) from the shelves and tucking them under his arm. When his arms get full, he tosses the books onto the bed (stripped, no doubt, and covered by a dust cloth). He finds a framed photograph on the bookshelf. My entire family. The only photo of all the Holmes' collected that I can remember ever having. The Christmas day before my seventh birthday, all of us rather dour under our smiles, though Mycroft and I are wearing the hats we'd won in our crackers.

John studies the photo for quite a long moment, then looks up at me wearing a sad little smile, "You look much happier now," he says.

"Yes," I say, returning his smile. "Much happier." John comes to me and hugs me very tightly. I squeeze back.

"I want to hug him," he says, "The little you from the photo."

I chuckle, "He would not much have enjoyed that." 

John laughs a sniffy sort of laugh. "Sensible of him," he answers, his voice rather thick. "Doesn't do to go round letting yourself be hugged by weepy strangers. Poor little fellow." I squeeze him tighter and lower my head to get a whiff of his scalp. Very evergreen. Soothing. He strokes my back, and we stand clutching each other for a few more moments before turning back to the bedroom.

Somehow I feel a bit reluctant about coming properly into the room, but John walks back in, gathers up the books from the bed, whips off the dropcloth (sneezes at the ensuing cloud), toes off his shoes, flops down on the bed and smiles at me. Something about the sight of John Watson in amongst my old things, looking sunny and smiling and utterly alien is reassuring. I’ll be able to walk out of this sad little cell with its attendant misery still twenty years past. I take off my jacket, toss it over the desk chair, and throw myself down next to John. “Hullo love,” he says and kisses me.


	234. Chapter 234

We had a bit of a sour start to dinner. Sherlock had seemed to be a bit more comfortable by dinner time, but when we entered the dining room, Mycroft said by way of greeting,

"My, how companionable. Do the pair of you go about arm in arm always or only on special occasions?"

Such a charmer, that one. I glanced at Sherlock, and he frowned a bit, which was a good sign. When he's really upset, he goes sort of blank. We took our seats and sort of picked at the food. It looked very nice, but I didn't have much appetite, and Sherlock didn't seem to either. I've never actually seen Mycroft eat anything. Not so much as a biscuit with his tea. I patted Sherlock's knee under the table a few times, and he'd bump his foot against mine in reply.

After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock looked up as if he'd just realised where he was and said, "Mycroft, when did I go dark?"

Mycroft seemed to have been in his own reverie, "Pardon?"

"My hair. I used to have ginger hair. When did it go dark?"

Mycroft put his glass down and tapped his index finger to his mouth, "I suppose I'd say you started to go dark when you were about four. It was around when I left for school."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, "Thank you."

"Why do you ask?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Been meaning to. Seemed like an opportune moment." I squeezed his knee, and he smiled without looking at me.

"I see," said Mycroft, looking between the two of us.

"I asked," I offered.

"Ah." Mycroft can pack disdain into a syllable even more economically than Sherlock can.

I did allow myself an eyeroll before I continued to try to be pleasant, “So, erm, Mycroft. Been a while. How’ve you been?” I said. Mycroft frowned without answering.

“Small talk,” muttered Sherlock.

“Yes, Sherlock. Thank you,” said Mycroft. “Very well, thank you for asking, Doctor Watson. And yourself?”

“John is fine. Nobody calls me ‘Doctor Watson.’ Anyway, you’re my brother-in-law. Seems a bit. Rigid.”

“Indeed. How have you been, John?”

“Just fine, thanks. Both of us.” I patted Sherlock under the table again and he nudged my knee with his.

Mycroft made that little wince that he thinks is a smile, “Good, good. That’s good. Bit nostalgic, I understand?”

“Do shut up and mind your own business,” Sherlock said at once.

“Erm, have I missed something?” I said, “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing!” said Sherlock. “Some things don’t bear discussion,” he added quietly.

“Must you always be so secretive? Certainly you can understand my concern.”

“You’re just going to have to live with your concern, Mycroft. I am not going to discuss that with you. Ever. And I wouldn’t be secretive, if you would stop your meddling and spying.”

I cottoned on then. “Am I the only one with déjà vu?” I asked. “Let’s not, all right? Is there any pudding?”

Mycroft and Sherlock glared at each other for a long moment. I didn’t think I would get an answer, but Mycroft said, “I’ll check,” got up from his chair, and left the room.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said, getting up too.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” I asked, following Sherlock out of the dining room.

“Sorry John,” he said over his shoulder, “no pudding.” I snorted.

We went back up to his bedroom to collect some books, then right back down to the guest room, where we passed the evening companionably enough. I lay on the bed reading, and Sherlock sat beside me, scribbling alternately in his notepad and his book of staff paper, sometimes tapping things out on his knee or mine. Very nice, actually. I would have quite enjoyed it, if it hadn’t followed a (bloodless, Holmesian) row. After a few hours, he put his pads down on the night table and began to get undressed for bed. I followed suit.

“I didn’t know I had pyjamas,” he remarked as we got into bed.

I kissed him, “Of course you did. You spend half your life in pyjamas.”

Sherlock smiled indulgently at the jab. “I mean I didn’t know I had this little suit of pyjamas. Did you get these for me? Thoughtful of you.”

“Well, if I didn’t see that your bum was properly covered, who would? Not you, you exhibitionist.”

Sherlock giggled and shut his eyes, “Thank you for looking after my bum, John,” he said, tucking his head under my arm and leaning against my chest. “Good night.”

“Good night, love.” I kissed him again, and he sighed. I wasn’t sure he’d really sleep, but he pressed tight against me, and it didn’t take long for his breathing to slow. I must have dropped off too, because I woke in the night with his left hand wrapped around my left wrist, his fingers pressing and sliding patterns on it. I didn’t let on that I was awake, and eventually his hand quieted, his grip slackened, and he slept again.


	235. Chapter 235

Everything all right? Are you two on a case?  
~Molly~

 

We're visiting Mycroft. 

 

Really? Mycroft?   
~Molly~

 

Yeah, their mum died. Funeral was today. We'll be back late tomorrow. Still got some things to deal with. 

 

Oh how horrible! I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?  
~Molly~

 

Thank you. We're fine. I've got to go back to work on Saturday, though. Could you look in on Sherlock? He could do with the company. 

 

Of course. Sounds lovely.   
~Molly~

 

How are the cats?

 

Skip's an angel, Smoke thinks I'm the devil. As usual.   
~Molly~ 

 

Thanks for looking after them for us. 

 

You’re welcome! Have a nice visit. I'll see you soon.   
~Molly~ 

 

Ha, yes. We'll try. Thanks. 

 

Sherlock says hello. 

 

Hello Sherlock!   
~Molly~ 

 

He disapproves of your exclamation mark. 

 

Of course he does.   
~Molly~

...

"Oh hullo dearie! Have you just got back?"  
"Five minutes ago. John's upstairs. I just popped down to see if you'd like to have some tea with us."  
"Sounds lovely, dear, if you don't mind me being a bit loopy. I've just had my evening soother."  
"Ha, no we don't mind. Would you like to come upstairs, or would you rather we came down?"  
"I'll come up and see you. Oh, it's been so quiet without you boys. I am glad to have you back."  
"Do we make that much noise?"  
"You have your moments, dearie, but I do like to hear your little thumps up there. It's a nice, cosy sound. Like company. Oh goodness! What's that for? Not that I mind at all."  
"It's just nice to see you."  
"Nice to see you too, dearie. What about one more for good measure? And a kiss. Yes, that's nice. Just sit for a moment, and let me see if I can scare up some biscuits."   
"It's all right; you don't need to do that."  
"Hush, now. You look peaky; you want feeding up."  
"Thank you."  
"No trouble, Sherlock. No trouble at all."

...

"Oh this is a nice photo."  
"Is it?"  
"Is this your family?"  
"My parents, Mycroft, and me."  
"Right. Your mum's pretty. She looks very like you."  
"You think so?"  
"Yeah, you've got the same eyes, same mouth. And she's got lovely, curly hair like you, as well."  
"True."  
"What was her name? Sorry. If you don't mind me asking."  
"I don't mind. It was Anne. Anne Charlotte Holmes. Née Anne Charlotte Gibson."  
"That's pretty. What was she like?"  
"Fragile. Very, very fragile."  
"Oh. I'm sorry."  
"Sorry? What for?"  
"All of it."  
"Ah. Right. Oh! Molly! I've spilt my coffee!"  
"Sorry."  
"It's all right. Bit of warning next time. You quite startled me."  
"Sorry."  
"It's all right. Here, give it another go."  
"You don't mind hugs?"  
"No, why should I?"  
"I rather thought they made you feel a bit, erm, put upon? Sorry."  
"Well, not when I'm expecting them. Not from the people who are actually inclined to administer them."  
"Oh. I'm inclined."  
"Yes, so I see."  
"I'll remember that."  
"Do."


	236. Chapter 236

Sherlock,  
I noticed that you took some sheet music from your bedroom, and it reminded me that I meant to offer you the use of Mummy's membership at the Royal Opera House. Please excuse the oversight. I was rather preoccupied. Use it in good health. Logistical details enclosed. Pleasure to see you, as always. My best to John.  
-M

...

“Have you recently sustained a head injury?”  
“I presume you received my note.”  
“Yes.”  
“And this is your colourful way of thanking me?”  
“Thank you, Mycroft.”  
“My pleasure.”  
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome, Sherlock. They’ve got Faust on next spring”  
“Faust? That’s rather a favourite of mine.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome. Sherlock-”  
“It’s fine. Don’t mention it.”  
“Right. Good evening.”  
“Good evening, Mycroft.”

...

"Hm. Mycroft sent them?"  
"Yes."  
"What for, though?"  
"An apology of sorts. It's his way."  
"Had enough of twirling his mustache, then?"  
"Ha, indeed. You do have a way with words, John."  
"The Holmes' bring out my theatrical side. Bit extravagant, isn't it? As an apology present. Couldn't he have just made the coffee?"  
"Well, they belonged to our mother."  
"To your mother?"  
"Yes, she was very fond of art and music. She was quite proud of her membership. We didn't like to give it up. Even after she was unable to attend any performances."  
"Oh. That's lovely."  
"Yes, Mycroft always took his filial duties very seriously. Would you like to go with me?"  
"Of course!"  
"All right. I'll have a look at what's on, and find something we'll both enjoy."  
"I've never been to the opera before."  
"Ha, forgive me John, but I am not in the least surprised."  
"You mean I don't seem the type?"  
"Not exactly."  
"Well first time for everything."  
"Indeed."  
"I suppose we'll go and see Mr Spencer for tuxedos?"  
"Yes, I'm sure we will."  
"Will you let him talk you into a-"  
"No, John. Some things are not to be endured."  
"I've seen you wear them."  
"Under duress. You monster."  
"Ha, matched set, love. You’ve worn them for disguises."  
"The work is another matter, John. This is an endeavour of pleasure."  
"Right, of course. And bow ties are not to be endured."  
"Don't be stodgy, John. If I plump for open collar, you'll have a better view of that freckle you're so fond of."  
"Right, so I will. Always looking after my interests, you are."  
"Well, John. Matched set."


	237. Chapter 237

"John?"  
"Yes, love?"  
"I'm glad you're awake."  
"Here I am."  
"Yes."  
"Can't sleep, love?"  
“I want to talk to you.”  
“Off you go, then.”  
“Not about anything in particular. I just want to hear you.”  
“Anxious for the dulcet tones of my blathering, are you?”  
“Mmm. Always. John?”  
“Yes, lovely?”  
“Will you tell me about your family?”  
“I’ve been thinking about my mum lots lately, actually. I wish you could have met her. She’d have loved you.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. She loved music; she would have loved to hear you play. ‘A musician in the family!’ Ha, that’s what she’d have said. You’d have minded your manners around her, too. She was one of those people, you know? Not strict, exactly, but high-minded. And so sweet and sincere and good that you were always very anxious to be very, er, well-behaved around her.”  
“She sounds lovely.”  
“She was lovely. She’d have just adored you. ‘I like the way you look at my Jack.’ She would have said that to you. She used to say it to Clara about Harry.”  
“I wish I’d known her.”  
“So do I.”

...

“Good morning, lovely! Sleep well?”  
“Mmm fine, thank you. You are terribly enthusiastic in the morning, John. It’s unnatural.”  
“Ha, it’s ten o’clock, love.”  
“Is it?”  
“Yes, when did you go to sleep?”  
“I’m not sure.”  
“You should have waked me, if you couldn’t sleep, love.”  
“I’m fine. Is there any coffee?”  
“Ha yes, in the coffee pot. Sit. I’ll get it. Breakfast?”  
“If you like.”  
“Of course. Shall I make soldiers?”  
“You know how I like soldiers.”  
“Ha yes, I do know.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“My pleasure, love. You know I think I’ve worked out what it is you like so much about soldiers.”  
“Apart from the texture and the flavour? Do tell.”  
“You can’t make them yourself.”  
“Mmm yes, I do enjoy eating the evidence of my own incompetence, John. Well-spotted.”  
“Shut up. What I mean is that you can’t make them yourself, so some one else has got to make them for you. If you’re eating soldiers, that means some one is looking after you.”  
“What an interesting hypothesis.”  
“Am I right?”  
“I’m sure I don’t know why you feel the need to assign any meaning at all to my enjoyment of soldiers, John. I like toast.”  
“What kind of maniac doesn’t like toast?”  
“I’m not certain that there is such a creature in existence.”  
“I should hope not.”


	238. Chapter 238

“John! John?” I’ve waked myself from a nightmare. John’s hand is on my shoulder almost before his name is out of my mouth. I must have rolled away from him in my sleep. I turn back to him, and tuck myself against his chest.

“Bad dream?” he asks, putting one hand in my hair and beginning to stroke my back with the other. I nod. “Anything?”

I try for a moment to recall the dream, but all I can see is darkness, and all I can hear is my heart in my ears. And John’s steady breathing. “No, it’s gone.” My voice is a bit rough. I clear my throat.

It seems that John’s chest rises and falls against me several times before he replies, “Well, it’s over now love. Here I am.” I nod again, press my ear against his chest and listen for his heartbeat. My metronome. It’s much slower than mine, at the moment. John continues to rub long, slow strokes on my back, and I wait for my heartrate to match his. My progress is very slow. I try not to think of it. Focus on John’s fingers, firm in my sweaty hair.

After a short while, he sits up, “Up please, love,” he says, patting my shoulder. I smile, sit up, and lean back against my pillows. He’s going to doctor me. I do like that. John brushes my fringe away from my face and kisses my forehead. It must taste of salt. It’s too dark to see for sure, but I think I hear him lick his lips. “I’m going to switch the light on, love. You might want to cover your eyes.” I shut my eyes, but I’m still slightly dazzled a moment later when the lamp comes on.

John takes my right hand in his right and squeezes it a few times, then gently extends my arm and slides his fingers to my wrist to check my pulse. Crack my eyelids open to see his tongue come out while he counts, looking down at his wristwatch, held loose in his free hand. I try not to fidget and watch John’s face. His glasses are sliding down his nose. After the requisite sixty seconds, John tuts.

I shrug, and he kisses me, “I’m not annoyed with you about your pulse, love.”

“I know.” John switches off the light, re-situates himself, and I make a pillow of him again, as soon as he’s flat enough. He puts his arm round my shoulders, and I sigh.

“You going back to sleep, love?”

I shake my head, “Not yet.”

John strokes my hair in such a way that I know he wants to ask me a question. I don’t know how I know, exactly. I just do. Intuition. Infuriating. “Are you sure you can’t remember it?” he asks, his voice low.

“Yes.” He doesn’t believe me. I made the mistake of telling him, shortly after my resurrection, about the worst of my nightmares. In the worst ones, I’d stand at the edge of the roof, stuck as if soldered and look down at my John standing on the pavement, knowing what it meant, if I didn’t jump. I suppose every time I shudder him awake, he imagines I must be seeing that. I haven’t seen that in ages, actually. Or rather I can’t remember seeing it, if I do. Now the memories of the dreams evaporate within seconds of me opening my eyes, and the prickles of horror I feel are over something I’ll never know. I can’t work out which is more unsettling. John’s fingers are worrying at the label in my pyjama top now. He wants to ask again if I’m sure I don’t remember. “I’m not lying to you, John,” I say quietly.

“Of course not,” he says.

“I don’t lie to you, John.”

“I know, love. I believe you.”

“You don’t, but I suppose you can’t help it.”

He sighs, “I’m sorry, love. I don’t understand why you’re so affected, when you can’t remember them.”

“I can’t fix what I can’t see, can I?”

“You can’t fix a dream,” he says.

“I can inoculate myself.”

John goes a bit rigid when I say that. I shouldn’t have. John’s been trying to inoculate himself, probably for a decade at least. He’s silent for a few moments, even his hands on me go still, “You expect too much of yourself, love,” he says and resumes his stroking.

“It helps to try,” I tell him. He nods. He can understand that. My desire to struggle. I’m always struggling. It’s my nature.

“Shall we do the tin?” he suggests.

I shake my head. I just want to hold onto him. “In the morning,” I say.

“Something to look forward to.”

“Indeed.” I shut my eyes and am beginning to feel sleepy and boneless when I hear a sort of thrumming sound. John is humming against my hair. He hums for a few seconds, then begins to sing, his voice low to start with and muffled by my hair. I can’t make out the words. Something about rowing across a wide river.

This is new. This is exciting. John has never tried to sing me to sleep before. New data. Lovely. John would roll his eyes at that. ‘Just a lullaby, Sherlock,’ he’d say. He’s at his most thrilling when he doesn’t mean to be thrilling. My head begins to fill with plans to elicit this sort of treatment again. I don’t mean to fall asleep again. Not yet. Not for a bit. But John is terribly talented with me, and I drift off, lulled just as much by his hand on my back and his breath in my hair as I am by his quiet singing.


	239. Chapter 239

"Good morning, lovely. This is a nice surprise."  
"Good morning, John. I was feeling particularly rested after your very pleasant attentions last night, so I thought I'd get breakfast going."  
"Breakfast? What are you making?"  
"Rather a mess so far. I tried to poach an egg."  
"Dear."  
"Yes, it went as well as you might expect."  
"I think you've got something in your brain that stops you being able to cook anything. Some sort of microchip. Or perhaps you're missing a bit."  
"I can cook. Sort of. I did survive for thirty-three years before I met you, you know."  
"Yes, that's a mystery that plagues me every day. I really can't picture it."  
"Not worth picturing, frankly."  
"Right."  
"Erm, anyway. Beans on toast. And coffee. Coffee's brewed; help yourself. The rest'll be out of the oven in a bit."  
"Thanks, love."  
"I think we said something about the biscuit tin?"  
"I'll get it."  
"It's in the fridge."  
"The fridge?"  
"Yes, the fridge."  
"Why, exactly?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"Ha, I suppose not."

...

Hullo love,

You're asleep now, but I can't sleep. Bit disorientated, I suppose. Everything seems a bit off. I suppose I've had a lot of new information to absorb today. I can't stop thinking it all over. We're at your brother's house. I've got some fond memories of this place, funnily enough. You know what I'm thinking of. But I'm not sure I'll be able to think of it the same way again. I don't need to get into all that. You know what I'm thinking of.  
This place is a bit gloomy. Hope you don't mind me saying. I did love to see your room, though. It's so you. All that science stuff. All those bugs. Ha. You'll tut at me for calling them bugs. Insects and arachnids. Precision of language is all that separates us from the barbarians, I suppose. God. I wonder if Mycroft takes after your dad at all. I suspect he does.

I hate thinking of you growing up here on your own, love. Hope you don't mind me saying. You told me once that you were like a rocket, tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad. I thought you were being a bit self-important at the time, honestly. But I think I understand now. I see now, I think. I hate to think of my brilliant Sherlock trying to keep quiet for the sake of the atmosphere of this stupid haunted library.

I suppose you weren't my Sherlock yet when you lived here. God, I wish you had been. I've spent the time we've been here thinking about how lovely it would have been to introduce you to my family. My mum always wanted me to hang round with the brainy kids. She'd have loved you. I'd have brought you home for Sunday dinner, and my mum would have tutted over how thin you were and sent you home with your pockets full of biscuits.

You’re my Sherlock now. My brilliant Sherlock. I’m so happy to have you. I should tell you more often what a joy you are. I could see it right when I met you. What a delight you would be. It wasn’t just the mad fun of dashing about on cases, either. You took notice of me, and you understood me. Humanising. That’s what you’d call it. I’d go on and get really poetic and embarrassing, but you’re stirring a bit. I don’t want you to wake without me wrapped around you. So I’ll get back into bed now. See you in the morning, lovely. Can’t wait.

Yours,  
John


	240. Chapter 240

When I arrived home on a particular evening in recent memory, I met a rather odd scene. There was some lovely piano music playing on Sherlock’s ridiculous sound system, and an ominously strong smoky odour. The sitting room window was slightly ajar. I frowned and hung my coat on the hook by the door.

“Sherlock? You in here, love?”

Sherlock answered from the kitchen at once, “John? Have you just got home? Sorry, I lost track of the time. Erm. Stay out there, please.”

I’d taken a few steps toward the kitchen already, but I stopped short. “What? What for? What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Just tidying up a bit,” he called over what sounded like quite a bit of broken glass being dumped into the bin. “Don’t look. You’ll be annoyed. I erm. Broke rule four. Accidentally. Bit of a mishap. Bit untidy. Be finished soon. Just sit down. I’ll bring you a drink. You like the Chopin? I fancied some music while I worked today.”

“Rule four?! Are you all right? Do you need help?”

“No, I’ve put it out; it’s fine. Though there is something you can do for me, John.”

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“A bit, I think. Haven’t had a good look, yet. Nothing horrible. But I need a favour. Get my phone from the mantel and text Lestrade.”

I went to the mantel and found Sherlock’s phone balanced on a case of preserved ladybirds. “Got it,” I called. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell him, ‘It is as we discussed in your office. Arrest Alice Cox.’”

“Oh, you solved the thing with the librarian, then?” I asked as I typed out the text.

“Mm yes, just now actually,” he called. I could hear cabinet doors opening and shutting and a moment later, he entered the sitting room wearing a lab apron and with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and two glasses held in his left hand. “That’s what the experiment was pertaining to. Had to disprove her ridiculous alibi,” he said, setting the glasses on the coffee table and holding out the bottle. “Do you mind?” he asked, removing his apron and chucking it over the back of the sofa, “My right hand is a bit tender at the moment. I don’t know if I can manage the corkscrew.”

“Tender?” I asked, putting the wine bottle down next to the glasses. “Let’s have a look at that hand before we open the wine.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad, John. Only a bit sore. Let the bottle breathe while you look at my hand.”

“Nice try, Sherlock. Sit.” He sat, and I knelt on the sofa and peered over the back to find one of my first aid kits. He was smiling at me when I turned back to him. “What are you so pleased about?” I asked, seating myself next to him and opening the kit, “Doesn’t your hand hurt?”

“Yes, quite a bit, actually. I hope you can do something for me,” he said, holding out his right hand.

“Right. Let’s have a look.” If he’s not in too much of a mood, Sherlock tends to go rather quiet when I examine him (when he is in a mood, he gripes and snarls throughout). It can be a bit disconcerting. Sherlock’s silences are often not relaxed silences. I can almost hear his mind moving in the gaps between his speeches. Leaves me anxious to know what he’ll say next. He did fall quiet when I lifted his hand to look at it, but when I glanced at his face, he was still smiling. “Erm, doesn’t look too bad. Blistered, but the blisters haven’t broken. It’s a first degree burn. You’ll be a bit tender, as you put it, for a few days. Maybe a week. You didn’t splash any nasty chemicals on yourself, did you?”

“No, John.” I could hear that smile in his voice when he said it.

“You’re sure? It’s rather important.”

“Of course I’m sure. Anyway, I’ve already rinsed it well, John.” Sherlock silently watched me clean his burn with a sterile wipe, spray it with with burn spray, and wrap it loosely with gauze. When I’d finished, he held his hand up to his face to smile at the nice little knots I’d made in the gauze.

“Does that feel better, love?” I asked.

“Much better, John. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, love. Keep the bandage dry or it’ll chafe, and try not to break the blisters. I’ve sprayed the burn with a topical anesthetic. When it wears off, if your hand is still hurting you, you can have some more. I’ll retie the bandage for you, if you want to take it off to apply some more burn spray. I want you to wear it while you’ve got the blisters, all right? It’s really not serious, but I suppose it smarts quite a bit.”

He nodded. “But it feels much better now you’ve got me all patched up, John.”

“It’s what I’m for, love.”

He grinned. “Well. Among other things. Like wielding corkscrews, John.” He pulled the corkscrew out of his apron pocket and held it out. “Would you do the honours, please?”

“I was just getting to that,” I said. I took the corkscrew, opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and handed one to Sherlock.

“Mmm, this is a cosy turn of events,” Sherlock remarked, shifting so that he lay on his side and leaning against me. “I’m glad you turned up when you did. Perfect timing, as usual, John.”

I put my arm round his shoulder. “Glad to be of use, lovely.”

“You never did tell me how you liked the Chopin, John,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “I’m trying to get a feel for what you enjoy. I haven’t forgotten about our impending visit to the Royal Opera House, John. Been thinking of it quite a bit, actually.”

“The music is lovely,” I said, taking a sip from my own glass. “Mmm, so is the wine.”

Sherlock sighed, smiled, and shut his eyes for a moment. “I’m so glad you enjoy the music, John. Nocturne No Two in E flat Major, for your records. It’s so pleasant to share these things, isn’t it? Perhaps next explosion, we’ll listen to some Bach. I adore Bach. Mmm, Mummy was right. I should have learnt the piano as well.”

“Next explosion?”

“Or whatever,” Sherlock waved dismissively as if that were a particularly unimportant set of details. He shifted his glass gingerly to his injured hand, taking care to hold the stem between his fingers without bumping his burnt palm. Then he looked up at me with a very specific sort of grin and began to stroke my knee with his free hand. “I’ve just finished a case, John,” he said. “Just solved a case. Aren’t you going to tell me how brilliant I am?”

I chuckled, “You’re a beautiful genius, love.”

Sherlock smiled and sipped his wine. “I know you know what I mean, John,” he said, stroking my knee more firmly.

I put my free hand in his hair and paused to enjoy the way he drew a very long breath and leaned into me before I replied, “Something to do with coat cupboards, I suppose.”

Sherlock took a long sip of his wine, then set the glass down on the floor, turned his head, and smiled up at me, “You’ve read my mind. Witch.”

I moved my hand from his hair to his hip, “I suppose you’ll want to sort me, then. You’re not one to tolerate witchcraft. Going to want to administer a pressing, I suppose?”

Sherlock bit my knee before he answered, “Continuing to read my mind is only going to land you in further trouble, witch.”

“That is exactly what I was hoping for, actually.”

Sherlock wrapped his arm round my neck and kissed me before saying, “Well then. You’re in for a treat.”


	241. Chapter 241

“Could you take those off first?”  
“I need them to see, love. Remember seeing?”  
“Forgive my impertinence John, but I think you can find your way around me without them. I don’t like to see my reflection during. It’s distracting. My face is overly animated.”  
“You do have a very expressive face, love.”  
“Well then.”  
“We’re at an impasse then because I like to watch you pull faces.”  
“Hmph.”  
“Ha, that one’s one of my favourites. Thanks, love.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Make me.”  
“Mmmm, if you insist.”  
“I’m just trying to earn myself further pressing.”  
“Well, you have. Witch.”

...

“John, you’re a genius.”  
“Ha thanks, love. Though we may decide in the near future that drinking in bed was not one of my better ideas.”  
“You’re thinking of the cleanliness of the sheets, I suppose.”  
“Well yes.”  
“So fastidious.”  
“Are you saying you want to drip wine on the sheets?”  
“Not exactly. I’m just willing to risk it.”  
“So’m I. I did suggest it.”  
“Good, that’s settled then. Would you mind freshening my glass? Ooh, thank you. That’s plenty.”  
“You’re welcome, love.”  
“Now admit that you’re extremely comfortable, John.”  
“Mmm extremely.”  
“Good. I do like to make you comfortable, John. I like to attend to you.”  
“You’re rather brilliant at it.”  
“I’m so pleased you think so, John. So are you also brilliant at attending to me.”  
“Well love, we’re a matched set, aren’t we?”  
“Yes, of course. So we are.”

...

"What are these?"  
"What do they look like, John?"  
"Pair of boots."  
"Oh?"  
"Men's boots. Black leather oxfords. Nice quality. Rather old, but in fairly good condition. Recently polished but not recently worn, going by the dust on the knots in the laces. Tall man, going by the size of them. Around six foot, I'd say. Smoker, I think. There's a little ash burn here at the toe. Very distinctive. Hmm. Interesting stride going by the wear on the soles. Energetic fellow, I suppose. What's that look? Why are you laughing at me?"  
"Who does that sound like to you, John?"  
"These are yours?"  
"Ha, yes. You left out an important bit of evidence, John. They are in our flat, and they do not belong to you."  
"Right."  
"Well, apart from your little oversight, that was very good, John. Mmm, I do like to see you deduce. Your expression is just. Beautiful."  
"Ha, thanks love. Tell me about the boots."  
"You've just told me about the boots, John."  
"Oh go on then. Bit more. For the sake of my beautiful expression."  
"I practically lived in them when I was at university."  
"Ahhh, so they coexisted with the nose ring, then?"  
"Mmm yes, for a whole fortnight. I've been hoping you'd forgotten about that."  
"I'll never forget about that, love. It's in my mind palace."  
"Don't mock the mind palace, John. It's one of my favourite achievements."  
"My sincerest apologies, love."  
"Just mind it doesn't happen again."  
"So. The boots."  
"Yes?"  
"Why've they suddenly reappeared?"  
"Mm, I saw them at Mycroft's, and I decided that I wanted them back."  
"Are you planning to wear them again?"  
"I might."  
"Do."  
"Would you like that, John?"  
"Very much."  
"Would they look all right with a suit?"  
"Well, you wouldn't tuck the trouser leg down the shaft, would you?"  
"Don't be ridiculous, John."  
"I think it might work. Could look very, er, detective-y."  
"Detective-y? Hmph. I suppose you mean that as a compliment."  
"What higher compliment could there be, love?"  
"Mmm, indeed. Fair enough."


	242. Chapter 242

“Rub my leg.”  
“Hmm?”  
“Do as I tell you.”  
“Rub your leg?”  
“Yes, here.”  
“Is this for your benefit or mine?”  
“Both. Symbiosis.”  
“There, how’s that?”  
“Mmm perfect, John. You’ve held up your end of the bargain.”  
“What’s your end?”  
“Stroking a mammal releases oxytocin and serotonin. You’re welcome.”  
“Ha, generous as ever, love.”  
“Well, I’m rather fond of you, John.”  
“I was starting to suspect you were.”

...

"What are you writing?"  
"Notes."  
"What about?"  
"Music, Miss Nose."  
"Music? You don't like music."  
"Don't like music?! How can you say that, Molly? You know I'm a musician!"  
"You never know any songs."  
"Just because my knowledge does not overlap with yours does not mean it is non-existent."  
"All right then, what about music?"  
"I'm composing, Molly. Please hush."  
"How can you be composing?"  
"I've an idea that I mean to try later when I’ve got my violin. Don't want to forget it. Hush. You've disrupted me enough already."  
"Sorry."  
"Hush."  
"Has that little book got the lines in it?"  
"Are you asking me if it's staff paper?"  
"I suppose so. I don't really know what it's called."  
"The sort of paper that music is written on.Yes, it's staff paper. John gave it to me."  
"Oh, that's nice."  
"Yes, it is. It'd be really nice if you'd shut up."  
"Sorry."  
"Don't be sorry; be quiet."  
"Ha, you sound like my mum."  
"She must be extremely sensible."  
“Will I get to hear it?”  
“Hear your own silence? I hope neither of us will.”  
“Hear the bit of music you’re writing.”  
“Composing. No, you won’t.”  
“I suppose it’s personal.”  
“Very.”  
“You’re just showing off, then.”  
“Sitting quietly writing in a notepad is not showing off Molly. Now shut up.”  
“Must be something to do with John, you’re so tetchy.”  
“Clever you. Now please shut up.”

...

"Oh hullo. Here's what I like to see. You do look charming."  
"Stow your insolence, and give me my hello kiss."  
"Mmmm, all right then. Plenty of time for insolence after that."  
"...at least I managed to defer it for a moment until after I'd bolstered myself with a little affection."  
"I do like to see you in my things, love. Have I mentioned recently how marvelous you are in stripes? And you've got the boots on. Doubly charming."  
"It's a disguise, John."  
"For a case? Or were you only stalking me again?"  
"For a case, John. Obviously."  
"Did it help to dress up like me?"  
"I'm not dressed up like you."  
"No?"  
"No, only unlike me."  
"So you didn't put on my jumper because you like smelling of me?."  
"Rather because it's so unlike anything of mine."  
"Well you look-"  
"John! Fair warning. If you tell me that I look adorable or renew your impertinences along those lines, I shall have to punish you severely in hopes of teaching you to choose your words more carefully."  
"Mmmm, when you're wearing my clothes, even your death threats are adorable."  
"I'll be sure not to make such a mistake again. And it wasn't a death threat. Not quite."  
"Liar. You love wearing my clothes. They're irresistible to you. Is it because you've a yearning deep within your soul to put on cuddly jumpers? Are you jealous of my constant cosiness?"  
"You're in very serious trouble, John. I'm not going to let your taunts go unpunished."  
"I'd expect no less."  
"Arrogant and insolent. Well, I'll soon straighten you out."  
"Erm."  
"That is to say, I'll soon have you sorted."  
"Ah, good, good. Excellent. I'm quite looking forward to it, Montresor."  
"Mmm, you'll not be disappointed, Fortunato."


	243. Chapter 243

“Hello my John! Oh, don’t you look a thunderstorm. What’s the matter? Wait, kiss me before you tell me.”  
“Hullo love...mmm that does help. Harry popped round the surgery again. Around lunchtime.”  
"Not for lunch, I imagine."  
"Not exactly."  
“Bee in her bonnet?”  
“Ha yeah, something like that.”  
“And what did she say to put that look on your face?”  
“Oh you know. The usual.”  
“‘Your husband is a monster, your marriage is hastening the apocalypse, please wear the ugly jumpers I send you’?”  
“Yep, she touched on those.”  
"How did she come to choose today to reiterate her message?”  
“Well, she’d had a bit.”  
“A bit? To drink? You mean a lot to drink.”  
“Yes, a lot.”  
"I'm sorry to hear that. Was it as bad as could be or only rather horrible?"  
"Somewhere in between."  
"I'm sorry, John."  
"Right well. That's Harry."  
"Indeed. Hmm."  
"Hmmm what, lovely?"  
"I've been thinking of our siblings since-I've been thinking of our families lately. We're the only happy ones, aren't we?"  
"I suppose we are."  
"Odd, isn't it? Or surprising? Considering."  
"Considering?"  
"Considering our respective histories. The bits that are entwined and the bits that predate our relationship."  
"Well. We've got each other. That makes all the difference."  
"Yes, John. So it does. All the difference."  
"We should introduce them. Mycroft and Harry. They can get pissed together and tut over us and the oncoming apocalypse."  
"They might enjoy that, actually. If they could get past certain differences in manner."  
"Ha! Well. We did."  
"Mm, there may have been a slightly smaller disparity there, John."  
"Ha yeah, and you fancied me."  
"Mmmm, I believe the feeling was mutual. Anyway no chance of that particular lubricant in this circumstance."  
"Ha nope."  
"God. Is it a bit not good that I'd quite like a drink, John?"  
"Actually, I was just going to say."

...

"Just what are you giggling at, John?"  
"I'm not giggling."  
"You're thinking giggles. I can see them all over your face."  
"That's quite an imagination you've got there, love."  
"Out with it."  
"It's a pun."  
"Oh."  
"Right."  
"Well, I'll have it anyway."  
"You're wearing a cat hat."  
"Firstly that is not a pun, only a rhyme, though don't think I'm any more in favour of pointless rhyming than I am of puns. Second, I most certainly am not."  
"She's sitting just above your head, so she looks like a hat."  
"Does she?"  
"Ha, yes."  
"Well. Even if I were wearing Smoke as a hat, it'd be superior to the death frisbee."  
"Yeah, she looks like she makes quite a good hat, actually."  
“Not a hat, John. You wound both our dignities by suggesting it.”  
“Luckily you’ve both got unimpeachable personal dignity.”  
“Indeed.”

...

"Could you stop that, please?"  
"Stop what, John? I'm doing exactly what you're doing. How am I annoying you this time?"  
"No, you're not because I'm not pulling faces and clutching my throat like I'm dying."  
"Well we've blundered into some sort of stink cloud. It's horrid."  
"Keep your voice down! It's just some one's perfume."  
"What for? It's vile."  
"Well whoever's wearing is probably still nearby. So just hold your breath for a moment."  
"Why should I hold my breath? I'm not the one who's drenched in noxious chemicals for the sake of reeking of artificial fruit or flowers or whatever that's meant to be."  
"True as usual, my love, but you're the one who doesn't like it, so-"  
"I'm the one?! Nobody likes it, John!"  
"That's patently untrue, Sherlock. Obviously some people like it or it wouldn't be manufactured."  
"Your logic is so tremendously faulty that I'm not even going to argue with that nonsense. Let's move upwind. I'm going to be sick."  
"Oh stop being dramatic. You're not going to be sick."  
"Dramatic?!"  
"Keep your voice down! And I know that look. Sherlock Holmes, if you make yourself sick on purpose just to prove a point-”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John!”  
“Me? I’m being ridiculous?”  
“Yes, John, ridiculous. Didn’t you hear me?”  
“You are bellowing, aren’t you?”  
“I don’t bellow! I’m not a water buffalo!”  
“No, only a lunatic! Now hush before I turn you over my knee!”  
“Before you what?”  
“You heard me.”  
“I wouldn’t fit over your knee.”  
“Oh are you anxious to try the experiment?”  
“Well. Not here in the street. Perhaps back at the-”  
“Just shut up, Sherlock!”  
“Fine. Tetchy.”


	244. Chapter 244

"John!"  
"Sherlock!"  
"Are you being tiresome on purpose?"  
"Are you?"  
"Hmph. I'm thirsty."  
"Then you should put something wet in your mouth."  
"All the glasses are dirty."  
"Uh oh."  
"John!"  
"I gather from you squawking my name over and over that you expect me to do something in particular."  
"Erm, the washing up, obviously! And you know I've never squawked in my life!"  
"Ah, right."  
"Well?!"  
"Well?!"  
"John!"  
"God, Sherlock just use a mug!"  
"The mugs are dirty as well."  
"So then you do the washing up; you're the thirsty one."  
"Ergh. Never mind."  
"Just out of curiosity, have you ever done the washing up before? And follow-up question, if so, do you ever plan to do it again?"  
"Yes, I have for your information. And no, I don't. I got damp last time. Down my front. There was a splotch."  
"Heavens."  
"Well?"  
"Well, I guess you're just going to have to put your face under the tap, then because I am not doing the washing up."  
"Why not?"  
"Spite."  
"Never again?"  
"Not even if the weight of the dirty dishes threatens to cave in the kitchen."  
"Dirty dishes don't weigh more than clean ones, John."  
"They do if they've got enough residue on them."  
"Hmph."  
"Hmph indeed."  
"Want to go out for dinner?"  
"All right then."

...

I’d heard Sherlock playing when I let myself in. Something I’d not heard before, but from what I knew of the piece he was working on, it didn’t seem like it could be from that. I climbed the stairs slowly, listening and trying to place the piece. It didn’t sound like any of the classical music he’d been playing in the flat lately either. Not exactly like, anyway. I paused for a long moment at the door of the flat before I unlocked it to go inside.

Sherlock wasn’t at his usual place at the window, though he was clearly nearby going from the volume of his playing.

“Sherlock?” I called, hanging up my jacket, “Where are you love?”

The playing stopped for a moment, and he answered, “Here John. Right here.” And resumed. It took me a moment to work out that by, ‘here,’ he’d meant behind the sofa.  
I came and sat down on it. Sherlock was sitting on the floor behind the sofa with his legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes shut, playing.

“All right, love?” He gave a terse little nod. “What are you doing behind the sofa?”

“Violin,” he said without pausing his playing. He hates to be interrupted while he’s playing, especially for chit chat. I suppressed the urge to kiss him that I always get when I hear him play and settled back onto the sofa to listen. He finished a couple of minutes later, but sat with his eyes shut and his violin clutched under his jaw until I spoke again.

“That was lovely.”

He opened his eyes, “Did you like it?”

“Loved it,” I said, leaning over the arm of the sofa to kiss him. He lowered his violin and dropped his bow across his knees to take me by the shoulder and pull me a bit closer.

“Mmm, hello John,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Bit of an unfriendly welcome just now. Sorry.”

“Why are you behind the sofa?” I asked.

“Oh it was an impulse. Seemed like a soothing place. Been in a bit of a mood today,” he said. “I came back here to play for a bit and try to relax. I’ve been rather snappish with you lately John, so I thought I ought not to try your patience again.”

It seemed rude to agree aloud, so I said, “What was it you were playing? I’ve not heard you play that before. It’s beautiful.”

Sherlock beamed. “I composed it when I was twenty-two. I found the music in my old bedroom; I’d thought it was lost. I was a bit, ah, nomadic during that period in my life. I’m glad you like it. I like it, too.”

“I like it very much," I said.

Sherlock squeezed my shoulder and kissed me again before replying, “I’ve never played it for anyone before.”

“You’re quite private about your compositions, aren’t you, love?” Sherlock looked at me for a long moment without speaking. I was beginning to wonder why he needed to think about it so long. It had seemed like a fairly straightforward question to me.

As it turned out, he was not thinking how best to answer my question. Likely he had not even heard me. He propped his violin and bow against the wall, crawled over the arm of the sofa, and dropped himself gently over my lap. Bit surprising.

Sherlock shifted and squirmed until he’d situated himself comfortably, then looked over his shoulder at me, smiled, and said, “I was wrong, I suppose.”I put one hand on the small of his back to steady him and the other on his right thigh (and squeezed it a bit, which made him squirm harder).

“Wrong about what, love?” I asked, though I suspected I knew.

“ I fit very neatly over your knee.”

I gave his leg quite a hard squeeze (and paused to enjoy the resultant squirming) before I answered, “I knew you would.”


	245. Chapter 245

“Oi!”  
“What? Affection.”  
“I’m not a napkin!”  
“Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.”  
“This is cashmere, you arse!”  
“Is it?”  
“You'd better hope that comes out.”  
“Bit of cold water, and it’ll be fine.”  
“Oh suddenly you’re a laundry expert? And I imagine this newfound knowledge will disappear from your head completely in about thirty seconds.”  
“Does it embarrass you to exaggerate so wildly?”  
“I wonder how wildly you’d exaggerate, if I wiped my mouth on one of your suits.”  
“My responses to your nonsense are always extremely measured and reasonable.”  
“Careful now. You’ll have a head rush from all that irony at once.”  
“Notice how I’m not rising to your bait, John.”  
“You’re using your smugness as insulation.”  
“Actually it’s my clean conscience that protects me, John.”

…

“Don’t think I don’t know what association you’re attempting to encourage, John.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Don’t sham innocence with me, witch. Won’t work. You’re wasting both our time.”  
“Want to let me in on your suspicions, love?”  
“I know when I’m the subject of an experiment, John.”  
“You think I’m experimenting on you?”  
“Fine, pretend if you must. You aren’t fooling me.”  
“No?”  
“Not at all. I know what you’re trying to put me in mind of when you do that to my hair. Yes, that. Mmm yes, John that. Though it’s generally a bit harder when I’m-mmmm, yes, perfect John.”  
“Your imagination is running away from you, love”  
“Are you sure? It’s working, you know. My mouth is watering.”  
“Well then. Your wild imagination aside, I am not one to waste a watering mouth.”  
“I was hoping you’d say that, John.”

...

“Agh! Sherlock!”  
“Sorry, did I wake you?”  
“Oh d’y’think? What the hell are you doing?”  
“I don’t like to say. You’ll be annoyed. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
“Annoyed? What would that be like? Can’t picture it. What were you doing?”  
“An experiment.”  
“An experiment?”  
“Well. A sort of experiment.”  
“Could you tell it a bit faster, please?”  
“I only wanted to know if you taste as nice as you smell.”  
“You’ve tasted me lots already.”  
“You smell extra nice right now.”  
“Oh. Do I?”  
“Yes, it was keeping me awake.”  
“Ha. Sorry.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
“What were the results of the experiment, then?”  
“You taste like sweat.”  
“Not surprising.”  
“I quite like that taste, though.”  
“Pleasant associations, I suppose.”  
“Mmm, indeed.”  
“Finished then? Can I go back to sleep?”  
“Yes, go back to sleep. I really didn’t mean to wake you. It usually doesn’t. The licking.”  
“You madman. Well, you may lick me all you like in the morning.”  
“Are you sure, John? I intend to hold you to that.”  
“Do. Good night, love.”  
“Good night, John.”


	246. Chapter 246

Hullo love,  
Have I told that I love the way you say my name? With a little pause before and after, and a bit of extra emphasis. Or a lot of extra emphasis. Like there’s an exclamation mark after it every time. John! John! John! John! John! John! John!  
Yours,  
John!

…

“How could you accuse me of stray exclamation marks, John?”  
“I’ve also said that it’s brilliant, and I love it.”  
“Yes, John but exclamation marks!”  
“Sorry love. Hate to break it to you, but loads of your sentences have got exclamation marks on. I think more exclamation marks come out of your mouth than full stops, actually.”  
“You love to break it to me. And full stops don’t come out of people’s mouths, John. Nor do exclamation marks.”  
“They do yours, love. They fog up round your head like a cloud of punctuation.”  
“My, how poetic. Your whimsy is one of your finer virtues, John.”  
“Thanks, love. Though going from your tone, I’d almost say you don’t think whimsy’s a virtue at all.”  
“Astute as ever, John. Sharp as a tack. Another of your very fine virtues.”  
“Am I being scoffed at?”  
“Oh, I never scoff, John. One of my finer virtues. And yet you never compliment me on it.”  
"One of my finer flaws."

...

"Not to cast aspersions your quickness of thought, my John, but do you practise that?"  
"Practise what, love?"  
"Your delivery on that threat was beautiful. And with such a smile, too. You looked quite deranged. It was all just lovely."  
"Was I smiling?"  
"Beatifically. Well, now, that’s in the bag, isn’t it John? Case closed.”  
“Ha, yeah, but you want to rein it in a bit?”  
“Rein it in a bit?”  
“Yeah, you want to take it easy on the eyebrow?”  
“What?”  
“You’re being a bit obvious.”  
“I don’t know what you mean.”  
“Yeah, you do. Anyway it’s not going to happen. Not this time. Sorry, love.”  
“Why not?!”  
“Keep your voice down! Because you’re all muddy.”  
“Mmm, afraid I’ll get you a bit messy? You like me all muddy. I’ve seen you looking at me since my little accident, John. You just can’t get your fill, can you?”  
“Shhh. Yes, well-spotted. Hush. But I think it’ll be a bit suspicious if we disappear for a bit and come back with both of us muddy instead of just you.”  
“Oh, no one’s going to notice.”  
“Police officers might be called professional noticers, Sherlock.”  
“Well this lot are rubbish at it; that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Anyway, what difference does it make if they notice?”  
“Ha, I suppose I just don’t like your rectitude impugned, love.”  
“Gallant of you.”  
“What can I say, lovely? I’m flying your banner on my lance.”  
“Indeed. John Watson, ever my champion. Bit over-gallant in this case, John.”  
“Well love, we’ll get you home into the tub, and then you can get me a bit messy, all right?”  
“I’m holding you to that, John.”  
“You’d better.”

...

“You look sweet in the tub. You should have baths more often.”  
“Shut up, John. I don’t look sweet.”  
“Sorry love. I’m afraid you look very sweet. Your hair’s all plastered down, and your cheeks are pink.”  
“It’s the steam.”  
“I know what it is. You’ll want bubbles for your next one, won’t you? Shall I get you some?”  
“John…”  
“I think lavender-scented would suit you. Soothing.”  
“I don’t care for lavender.”  
“So you do want the bubbles, then? Maybe lemon-scented? Invigourating.”  
“So tiresome, John.”  
“Ha, you’re a good sport, love.”  
“Yes, I’ve the patience of a saint...oh shut up laughing.”  
“Ha. Sorry. Ah, you’ve still got quite a bit of mud in your hair, love. Above your right ear.”  
“Have I?”  
“Yeah, want me to help? I could wash it for you.”  
“Would you?”  
“Would you like that?”  
“Very very much.”  
“All right then. Turn that way and pass me the cloth. And the shampoo. Ta, love. Shut your eyes.”  
“Mmm, that’s nice, John.”  
“How’s the pressure? Not overstimulating your sensitive follicles, am I?”  
“Perfect, John. Have you got a lot of experience washing other people’s hair?”  
“Ha no! You’re the first.”  
“Mmmm must just be your natural talent for looking after me coming out. Erm, John?”  
“Yes love?”  
“Have you just licked my ear?”  
“Not the muddy one.”  
“No.”  
“It looked like it would taste nice. Thought I’d take a leaf from your book.”  
“Mm, usually a safe choice. Did it taste nice?”  
“Tastes like the rest of you.”  
“Very nice, then.”  
“Ha, yeah. Very nice.”


	247. Chapter 247

I see you. 

 

Do you? How nice for you.  
-SH 

 

You're getting worse and worse at tailing me. 

 

For your information, I followed you there this morning without you seeing me, but your dawdling is driving me mad, so I decided to reveal myself.  
-SH 

 

I thought we might have dinner together.  
-SH 

 

Sounds lovely. Wait by that mailbox at the top of the street, I'll come to you. 

 

All right then. See you in a moment, John. If not sooner.  
-SH 

...

"Hullo lovely! This is a nice surprise."  
"Hello John. What about my- ...mm yes, thank you."  
"So you followed me this morning, my lovely creep?"  
"I did."  
"You just can't get your fill, can you?"  
"No, John. Clearly not."  
"Ha, lucky for me."  
"Can you blame me?"  
"No, I'm a delight."  
"Mmm, so you are."  
"So then, love. What have you been up to today?"  
"Erm..."  
"What? What's that look?"  
"You'll be cross."  
"Will I? Let's have it, then."  
"You won't shout, will you John?"  
"Ha erm no, I won't shout, but you're worrying me. What did you do?"  
"Er, I hung round the surgery."  
"Sherlock!"  
"Sorry. Knew you'd be cross."  
"How the hell could you possibly have done that?! Where were you?"  
"Erm. Waiting room."  
"What?! The staff knows you! How could they not have spotted you?!"  
"I was in disguise."  
"What sort of disguise?"  
"Just you know. Sloppy sort of clothes. I had them in a rucksack, but I binned the whole lot before you left work. It was all horrible. Windbreaker, jogging bottoms, trainers. And a flat cap. Ha and glasses. Those were a whim. I found them on the train this morning. Have I got mad hat hair?"  
"Sherlock!"  
"John, you're shouting."  
"Sorry. Please explain. Why?"  
"I just wanted to see if I could."  
"Sherlock. Thought this went without saying, but do not ever run experiments at the surgery. Do not turn up and act like a nutter at all. Do you want me to lose my job?"  
"No, of course not. Though... Never mind. Sorry. Won't happen again. Don't know what I was thinking. Sorry, John."  
"I'll probably regret this, but 'though' what?"  
"Well, I understand that it's beside the point, but you don't really need to work at the surgery, do you? We're doing all right without the extra income."  
"Extra- Right. Well yeah, it bloody well is beside the point! Do you solve cases for the money, Sherlock?"  
"No, of course not!"  
"Well then."  
"But we both solve cases, John."  
"Sherlock, I'm a doctor! I want to be a doctor! I love being a doctor! I'm a doctor just as much as I'm a soldier just as much as I'm a detective just as much as I'm John Watson, I'm a doctor! All right?"  
"Yes, John."  
"Don't cock it up for me, all right?"  
"I'm sorry, John. I didn't think."  
"Well. Do."  
"Sorry. Erm John?"  
"What?"  
"Do you still want to have dinner with me?"  
"Oh come here and give us a kiss...there. I'm sorry I shouted, love. That better?"  
"I'm sorry too, John. I was-"  
"A complete daft arse. Never again, yes?"  
"Yes."  
"All right then, my idiot genius. What do you want to eat?"

...

"John Hamish Watson."  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"The sight of you wearing that tweed jacket over a cardigan over an oxford shirt is making me incoherent with rage."  
"This is you incoherent, is it?"  
"As near to it as I get."  
"Ha. Well. That's debatable."  
"I know a deflection when I hear one, John."  
"Right, of course you do. What am I deflecting from? Exactly?"  
"You can't have the jacket and the jumper together. You'll have to remove one or the other."  
"Will I?"  
"Do you deny that you look ridiculous?"  
"I look stylish. And handsome."  
"I'm afraid I quibble with the former."  
"Quibble away, love."  
"Put your trust in me with regard to sartorial matters, John. My judgement there is unassailable."  
"So now you’re choosing my clothes for me? Ah, good, good. We've found a new thing for you to be pretentious about. I'd been feeling a bit of a void."  
"This is going to be fun, John! There's nothing I like better than, ah, educating you."  
"Lucky me."  
"I do envy you, John."  
"You envy me?"  
"You've got me for a teacher. A pleasure I'll never know."  
"Well, you can't have everything in life."  
"I can't, but you can, you lucky thing!"  
"I can't, though. I'm not the world's only consulting detective."  
"Mmm, true. Near enough, though."  
"Oh, Sherlock. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."  
"Is it? Should I have put it in the biscuit tin?"  
"Ha, no. You can still compliment me with your mouth. Aloud, I mean."  
"I know what you mean. And I don't intend to hold my mouth to that restriction, John. It'll do whatever it likes."  
"You don't say? Well, that'll make for a refreshing change."


	248. Chapter 248

“Oh my god. Sherlock.”  
“What?”  
“Right, don’t look. But on your eight o’clock. It’s that notJohn bloke again. Your old assistant.”  
“What?”  
“Yeah, just there. Across the road. Don’t look round! Erm, here. Come into this phone box and we can look at him through the glass.”  
“He might spot us anyway.”  
“Nah, the box’ll have the glare from the sun on it. He won’t be able to see us clearly enough. What’s he doing in London? Working?”  
“No, he lives here. He told me. Anyway, look at him. He’s obviously not working.”  
“Obviously?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Why do we keep hiding from him? Is he really that bad?”  
“Well. Not exactly. I mean yes, but not only that. Erm, the last time I saw him, I threw a mug at him.”  
“A mug? Why?”  
“Don’t recall. It didn’t hit him. It did break.”  
“Throwing a mug at your assistant is quite horrible.”  
“I know. I was rather on edge at that period in my life.”  
“Ah. Right.”  
“Yes.”  
“Still though. Not very good. You could apologise. Right now, I mean.”  
“Not my area.”  
“It’ll be good for you. It might even mean something to him.”  
“I think he’s gone now, actually.”  
“No, he went into that shop there. Come on, I’ll go with you.”

…

Once John assures me that he'll be with me, I feel less nervous about approaching Notjohn (can't stop thinking of him that way). My John takes me by the hand and leads me toward the shop he saw that other fellow go into. It's a little cafe actually, and when we enter it, I see that the non-John man is queuing and looking up at the menu behind the counter. He looks at the door when it opens, and his eyes rest on me for a moment without betraying any recognition. I open my mouth to greet him, and realise I've got no idea what to call him. Seems (even more wildly) inappropriate to use his pseudonym. I glance at John for help. He squeezes my hand before stepping forward and saying with a smile,

"Sorry, hullo. Sorry to disturb you. I think you know my husband?" He indicates me with his elbow, then offers his hand to shake. Notjohn takes it, smiling back at him without even glancing at me. Now I see them so close together, they really are terribly alike. In looks, at least. Infuriating. Must find some way to annoy Mycroft over this. Never too late for vengeance. Things have been getting a bit chummy anyway (I sent him a thank you note for the opera membership!)

"Hullo," says Notjohn. "I don't think I got your name."

"I'm John," says John, smiling even more broadly, "John Watson."

Notjohn laughs, and I feel a little thrill of fury, "You're John Watson? God, I almost thought he'd made you up. I'm Peter." Peter (Notjohn) has still not looked at me once. "Did you say he's your husband?"

John grins, "Yep, husband. All too real, I'm afraid. What did he say about me that was so fantastical?"

Peter laughs again. I hate him. I'm glad I threw a mug at him; I wish it'd hit him in the face. "Bit of a haze now, actually. I just remember thinking, 'no one's as great as all that'."

John beams and glances at me. I smile back. "I can't believe he mentioned me."

"Well, he'd mutter to himself while he was going over documents, and your name came up a lot. And he liked to tell me very often that I wasn't John. You know how he is. Thank god he's married you; it was clearly a long time coming."

“Yeah, he’s lovely, isn’t he?”

Peter laughs and laughs, as if John’s made a joke. John regards him with politely incredulous puzzlement. I adore John. John is brilliant.

"He's standing right here," I say sharply. Peter laughs again, his eyes still fixed on John When they’re not shut. Against tears of laughter, presumably. I hate him. I hate Mycroft for putting him in my life. I hate this bloody cafe. I can't wait to get my John away from him. I shuffle a bit so that I'm standing between them. John glances at me. I know I should speak, but I'm not sure what else to say.

John clears his throat then says, "Ah well, Sherlock just wanted to thank you for being such a good assistant. And we were hoping to get you a coffee." I barely resist turning to glare at him.

Peter glances at the door. He doesn't much fancy getting a coffee with us (good), "Oh, sorry John Watson, but I really must dash. Absolutely lovely to meet you," with a horrid little laugh. He finally glances at me, "Nice to see you again, sir," he mutters, dropping his eyes again at once. Then he sidles past me, abandoning his place in the queue and exits the cafe at a very brisk pace, indeed.

...

"Why did I hate that Peter bloke so much?"  
"He's awful."  
"Feel rather bad about it, actually, considering how terrified of you he was. Are you sure it was a mug you threw and not a grenade?"  
"Fairly sure."  
"And you can't remember why?"  
"I probably got sick of looking at his smug face and thought I'd liven him up a bit."  
"It is smug. Did he ever stand up for himself or was all the mug-hurling one-sided?"  
"I think we used to shout at each other. I don't remember. I’ve deleted most of it. No, wait. I remember now."  
"Oh?"  
"Yes, I think he said, 'Anthea told me your little friend is straight, anyway.'"  
"Oh."  
"Mmm, indeed."  
"What was the context?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"I'm just having trouble imagining a conversation that ends with him telling you you're barking up the wrong tree and you throwing a mug."  
"Ah."  
"Want to fill me in?"  
"I don't think the rest of it was relevant. I don't remember it very well."  
"Well, let me know if it comes to you."


	249. Chapter 249

I have been playing my violin off and on all day; it’s been that sort of day. Grey and damp and sort of sulky somehow and I need my violin to keep myself company. Am starting to think of stopping (starting to get a tender spot on my jaw) when I see John coming up the road toward the flat. Coming in from work. He looks annoyed. His brow is knit, mouth downturned and slightly ajar, and his left hand is flexing. Tremour's gone (mostly gone) but he's still got the habit of flexing it when he's under stress, particularly if he's self-conscious about it. No limp, though. That's good. I hate the limp.

He also looks lovely. He's wearing green. I can see his collar peeking out from under his coat. He must have forgotten his scarf. His neck will be cold. His neck smells lovely when it's cold. There's rain in his hair; I can see it from here. It catches the orangey light of the waking street lamps and makes his hair look rather aglow. Here's me with my poetry. John brings it out in me.

John looks up toward the flat as he comes up the road. We catch eyes, and he grins at me. He’s ready to be cheered, then. Nothing particularly bad has happened, only a difficult day. I hope. I smile back and nod at him. He waves and quickens his step. I raise my bow and begin to play his piece (the new one. More), forte so that he’ll be able to hear it from the street. John walks even faster, trying to look up at me and keep from walking into a lamppost or tripping over a crack in the pavement. He is too far away, I think, to be able to hear it very well but he gazes up at me all the same, rapt and grinning and half-running toward me and home. I lower the volume of my playing as he comes nearer. When he disappears from my eye line to come in through the front door, I go into Partita No One.

That’s what I’m playing when he bursts into the flat a moment later, still grinning and shaking his head. I turn from the window to smile at him and continue playing. He doesn’t speak, not even his usual cheery, ‘Hullo love!’ Only takes off his coat and hangs it on the hook by the door. He stands there watching me silently. I love to have John watch me play. It makes me feel like so much more than a keen amateur. He looks so pleased and rather proud. And sometimes, when I’ve chosen my piece well, and I’m focused, and my fingers are obedient, and John is in the right frame of mind, he looks transported. Putting that look on John’s face is better than my most brilliant deductions and my most sudden epiphanies.

He doesn’t look that way now. But he does look rather giddy and as if he’d quite like to kiss me (his mouth is ajar again, and his tongue is considering coming out to lick his bottom lip). I’m nothing, if not obliging, so I cut the piece short, lower my instrument, and make him a rather sardonic little bow. I’m expecting him to comment on the change from his piece to this one. But he doesn’t.

“Marvelous!” John says, quite sincerely.

“Thank you, John,” I say and put my violin in my chair and lay my bow across it. John and I step towards each other at the same time, but he touches me first and he pulls me to him and kisses me as if he’s been away for ages. His lips are a bit cool at first and his mouth tastes of slightly sour, stale coffee that’s been kept warm on a burner through the day. He had a cup just before he left the office, couldn’t face the commute home without it. Must be exhausted. “All right, John?” I ask, as soon as he breaks the kiss.

He nods, “Never better, love.” I tow him to the sofa anyway. We both sit rather heavily, and I immediately curl against him, pausing first to push my face into his collar. Well. It begins as a pause. But his neck is still cool, and his skin smells of wool and ozone and that delicious yeasty, buttery, fleshy smell. And of earthy, spicy fir cones. John. I wish I could wear his smell like my coat. How insulated I would feel.

I draw a few long breaths of John’s smell and even touch my tongue to his throat. When I’ve sated myself for the moment, start to lean against his side, but he shakes his head and begins pressing me back up toward the arm of the sofa. “Not this time love. This time I’ll make a pillow of you.” And John slumps against me, which is even better than me lying against him.

I put my arm round him, “Shall I put the kettle on, John? Or are you hungry? I could bring you something.”

John shakes his head, “No, love. Just sit there. I’ve been thinking of doing this very thing all day.” He shuts his eyes and sighs (lovely). I squeeze him, and he sighs again. His tongue comes out just for a moment. He’s not exactly smiling, but his mouth is pulling to the right (even when he smiles, only the right side of John’s mouth really turns up). I want to kiss that upturned corner. Can’t quite reach, though and I wouldn’t disturb John for anything. His breaths are growing longer and longer. John does get miraculously relaxed. Kiss the top of his head instead. “All day,” he murmurs again. I open my mouth to reply, but glance down and see that John’s asleep.


	250. Chapter 250

“Oh hullo. Have I been asleep?”  
“Yes, for a bit.”  
“God, it’s been two hours. Have you been my pillow this whole time?”  
“I didn’t like to disturb you.”  
“Thanks love.”  
“My pleasure, John.”  
“I can’t believe you just sat there for two hours. I didn’t mean to make you my prisoner, love.”  
“No? Don’t you like having me in your thrall, John?”  
“Well, in a slightly less literal way, love.”:  
“Well, I had a book; I did some reading. And I noticed several new freckles.”  
“Several? Just now?”  
“Yes.”  
“Bit derelict in your duties, then. What have you been doing with yourself to this point?”  
“My apologies.”  
“I see I’m going to have to keep you on a shorter lead.”  
“Indeed.”  
“Well get on with it. Report your findings.”  
“Three new ones along the inside of your collar. On the right side of your neck. Near your shoulder. Quite attractive.”  
“Interesting. Any more?”  
“Yes, actually. Two near your temple, usually covered by your fringe. Very, very nice. And my favourite is here. Below your ear, near your jaw. Lovely.”  
“And I suppose you haven’t made a full investigation?”  
“Not yet.”  
“Haven’t tasted them, then?”  
“I thought it might wake you and annoy you. Like before.”  
“I suppose I shouldn’t have asked you to give a report while you were still gathering data.”  
“You know best, John.”  
“Ha. Right. Well. Carry on with your fact-finding, and get back to me just as soon as you’ve completed your investigation.”  
“I suppose you’re going to help me analyse my data.”  
“Got that right.”

…

“Did you get this for me?”  
“Did you get it for yourself?”  
“Are you really choosing my clothes now?”  
“Well, at the moment only within the confines of your established taste, which constitutes a considerable restriction, John. I don’t think you’re exactly in need of more jumpers.”  
“Then why are you buying me more jumpers?”  
“This one’s better than what you’ve got.”  
“Better?”  
“Much better.”  
“How’s that, then?”  
“Every possible way.”  
“Right. Well, it is a nice colour. I look nice in green.”  
“Oh, stop trying to annoy me, and put your powers of observation to work. Look at the details. The texture, the weight, the shape, the quality of the buttons. Those are antiques. They came off of a shirt from my disguises. I had my tailor fix them on. The jumper is beautiful, and you can see that. Go on and admit it.”  
“Well, that’s sweet, love. Presenting the object of your affection with something lovely to wear.”  
“Shut up, John. I’m not being romantic.”  
“More pedantic.”  
“Don’t be embarrassed to admit that you’re in need of a bit of guidance.”  
“Imagine a person having trouble with that.”

...

"Shall we make it a long one this evening, John?"  
"Would you like that, love?"  
"Oh yes. Perfect walking weather. Misty but not too chilly. And I think there's one of your full moons out."  
"Atmospheric, then you mean. Or romantic."  
"Bite your tongue, John."  
"Bit of a breeze, too. We should walk against it, so it'll ruffle your hair."  
"You like me disheveled and windblown?"  
"Don't ask stupid questions."  
“Happy to oblige, John.”  
“Your speciality.”  
“Mmm, indeed. What if the wind doesn’t dishevel me enough for your liking, John?”  
“Well then I’ll be happy to bring you the rest of the way there, love.”


	251. Chapter 251

"No, no. No, no, no, no, no. This is wrong. This is all wrong. This person is not Mrs Braithwaite. Mrs Braithwaite was right handed, and this woman is left handed. Oh god. You lot are looking vacant. Lord. Right then. Let me take you through it. The computer mouse at the desk for Mrs Braithwaite's home office is on the right side. The message pad--note the female handwriting; it wasn't Mr Braithwaite's-- is on the right side of the phone. Right-handed. Our recently-deceased friend here is wearing her watch on her right wrist and has stray pen marks on her left hand but a note scribbled on her right hand. Also behind her left ear. Pen marks from where she'd tuck her pen behind her ear. Left-handed. And the wedding ring is too large. Far too large. Not her ring. Shoved on after death, I'd say. Certainly not Mrs Braithwaite. This is a double homicide, Detective Inspector, not a murder-suicide." I'm panting a bit by the time I get the last of it out, as I've hardly drawn breath the entire time I've been speaking.

"Amazing!" John says from behind me. Swallow a smile and peer more closely at the right hand of the corpse that is not Mrs Braithwaite. It reads, 'Gross Sci Mind & Bhvr pp 239-282 for Fri' Homework assignment. She's a student. College or university, most likely. She's too old to still be at secondary school. There's a bulge in the hip pocket of her trousers. Reach in and pull out a tightly rolled spool of those blue bags used for disposing of pet waste. There's hair from at least ten different dogs (stop bothering to count after I've reached ten) on her trousers, below the knees. Try the other pockets. No wallet or mobile phone, of course. Peel off my gloves, and a quick search on my phone confirms that the note is in reference to an introductory psychology textbook.

“Well,” I announce, as I get to my feet, “I expect you’ll be able to find out the identity of this unfortunate young woman if you check if the colleges in the area have any missing psychology students. Mrs Braithwaite is our murderess, Detective Inspector. You’ll want to-”

“How’s that, then?” Lestrade interrupts. Infuriating.

“How’s what, Lestrade?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“What makes you think it was Mrs Braithwaite? Aren’t you just assuming…” he breaks off at my expression.

I remain silent for a few moments until I can see that he feels sufficiently worm-like (and therefore sufficiently quiet), “I see you continue to have difficulty observing the most obvious details, Lestrade,” I tell him. I point out several portrait studio photographs of a pair of shih tzus that are arranged around the room. “Where are the dogs?” Lestrade only looks blankly at me. I scoff and roll my eyes.

“Go on, Sherlock,” says John. “Where are the dogs?”

“With our killer, Mrs Braithwaite. She adored her dogs; wouldn’t leave them on their own indefinitely, even to keep from getting caught. But what other murderer having shot Mr Braithwaite and the dogwalker without being noticed by the neighbours would stop to make sure that the dogs were looked after?” I’m still looking at Lestrade, watching comprehension ooze over his face. Painfully slow progress. Out of the tail of my eye, I can see John grinning and shaking his head. He’s got there already. Good man. “Check the nearest pet boarder,” I tell Lestrade. “She wouldn’t have taken the dogs to a neighbour or a relative because that would have raised the alarm. As soon as they heard about the murder of her husband on the news, they’d know she had a hand in it. Couldn’t risk it. And couldn’t bring them along on the run. She’d have a job keeping herself hidden, if she were toting around those yappy little things. No, Mrs Braithwaite shot her husband and the dogwalker, and tried to pass the dogwalker off as herself and posthumously frame him for her murder. If only to buy herself a bit of extra time to escape before her next of kin was called in to identify the body, and the game was up.” Pause to text for a cab on my phone. “Even you lot can sort the rest without me, yes? John and I’ve got dinner reservations. Come on, John.”

Turn slowly toward John. I’ve been deferring this moment. Haven’t looked right at him, since I began to recite my deductions aloud. Can’t help smiling when I catch eyes with him. He’s looking at me with naked wonder and admiration. His eyes wide and bright, his pupils dilated, his mouth slightly open, pulling to the right. His tongue’s about to come out. I can see his pulse so quick at his throat. Lovely. Shut my eyes for half a moment, thinking of what’ll be coming soon. John’s hands in my hair. His warm mouth. Open my eyes and shake the thought away. Not just yet.

John’s almost smirking when I open my eyes again. “You are fantastic,” he says quietly.

“That was aloud, John,” I answer, smirking back. Lestrade clears his throat, and John laughs openly.

I clear my throat, too and turn to Lestrade. “Right. Go on then, Detective Inspector. Time for the easy bit. Arresting,” I say before I turn back to John. “Ready John?”

John grins, “Definitely.” And we’re off.


	252. Chapter 252

“What are you doing?! Get off!”  
“I’m feeling your skull. Stop squirming, John. I’m almost finished.”  
“Feeling my skull. Right. Why exactly?”  
“It’s an interesting shape.”  
“An interesting shape?”  
“Yes.”  
“Want to elaborate?”  
“Which bit is it that you aren’t understanding? Your skull is the bony thing that keeps your hair from sinking into your brain. Doctor.”  
“Fine, never mind. Lunatic.”  
“You know this is your doing, John. You’ve only yourself to blame.”  
“My doing?”  
“Yes.”  
“How’s that?”  
“You’re so thoroughly enchanting that I can’t help wanting to explore every bit of you. You make me quite a prisoner to my impulses.”  
“No hope of controlling yourself?”  
“None at all, John. There now. All done. For the moment, anyway. It wasn’t so bad, was it?”  
“And what did you learn from your skull-feeling, love?”  
“I wasn’t testing a hypothesis, John.”  
“No?”  
“No, only gathering general data. I’ve got a John Watson encyclopaedia, you know. Well. In progress.”  
“In progress, eh? Haven’t got me all worked out yet?”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”  
“Is that ridiculous?”  
“You know it is. I’ve only just now started feeling your skull. How could I have got you all worked out?”  
“That’s an excellent point, love. Don’t know how I could have overlooked that.”  
“Disappointing failure to observe, John.”  
“Yes, yes. I am ashamed.”  
“You need not go as far as that. Shame is an impediment to greatness, John.”  
“So I hear.”

...

John,

It’s come on me suddenly and with satisfying clarity what I was trying to say in our earlier conversation (wherein you objected to me feeling your skull). I don’t know that I expressed myself very well at the time, but I’ll make another go of it. No matter how well I know you, I’m still always learning you better. For example, there’s a certain way you look at me sometimes. You were doing it the other day after I solved the thing with the dogwalker, but you’ve been doing it since the very first day I met you.

It’s not only a look like you think I’m quite clever and impressive, nor even a look like you admire my abilities. You look at me like I am wonderful. Like you adore me. And I know now that when you look at me like that, quite often it means that I’m about to be marched into a coat cupboard (mmmm). But it’s the same look as it always has been, though the coat cupboard is a relatively recent development. As I mentioned before, you’ve been looking at me that way since I met you. Like I am a wonder, and you’ll never have your fill of watching me.

It’s been the same look all along, but I’m still learning to appreciate its layers. There must be bits of you that I have no idea of right this moment that will seem so familiar and so obvious to me five years from now. Can’t decide if that thought is more delightful or infuriating. I want to have every drop of you now, but I love the idea of spending my entire life teasing you out and learning you. I think the spirit of inquiry wins out over greed. I’m quite giddy when I have an epiphany that pertains to you, my John. Have you noticed?

S


	253. Chapter 253

"Good morning, love. Oh hullo. What's all this?"  
"Scientists are calling it breakfast."  
"You cooked this?"  
"Clearly. I don't know why you're acting so surprised. I've cooked things before."  
"Right. Erm. Any special occasion?"  
"We haven't eaten in ten hours. Thought you might like to."  
"Mmm. I don't trust this. You look funny."  
"Your imagination is running away with you John."  
"Oh that's rich coming from you."  
"Are you accusing me of undue suspicion?"  
"Nah, your suspicion is always warranted, and I know mine is as well. This time anyway. You haven't drugged the food, have you?"  
"Of course not! I've only ever done that once, and I'm never going to live it down, am I?"  
"Ha, we mere mortals are a bit touchy about being drugged, love."  
"Anyway, we have discussed before that although you were drugged, I did not actually manage to drug you. It wasn't in the sugar."  
"It must be so difficult for you to mention that because you have to choose between allowing my factual inaccuracies or admitting yours."  
"Hmph."  
"So then, love."  
"So then."  
"Tell me what you're up to."  
"Breakfast John. If we can lay aside all this misplaced skepticism."  
"Hmmmm."  
"No, John! Don't!"  
"Sherlock!"  
"John!"  
"There's a head in the fridge!"  
"Yes, I know. I put it there. And I tried to spare you the sight of it, but you would go snooping."  
"It's not snooping to have a look in my own fridge! Why's there a head in the fridge, Sherlock? Again! When did you even put that there?!"  
"Yesterday. That's why I took you out for dinner."  
"Well what's it doing there?"  
"Just sitting, I hope. It wasn't moving about, was it? That'd be rather alarming."  
"Is it for an experiment?"  
"Obviously."  
"And I suppose I don't want to know what on?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"Right. I suppose not. Not to me. How long will it be with us?"  
"I'll take it back soon."  
"Soon?"  
"Yes."  
"And when's that?"  
"I've not got a firm timeline, but if you don't care for Hamish's company, it's probably best you stay away from the fridge this week."  
"This week?!"  
"Yes."  
"A whole week?!"  
"Not a whole week, John. It's Tuesday."  
"Right. Precision at all costs or we are lost to barbarism."  
"Now don't you start quoting Mycroft at me."  
"Wait, wait. Hang on."  
"Yes? What now?"  
"Did you call that thing Hamish?"  
"Yes, I did actually."  
"You named the head for me?"  
"Yes. It's a compliment, John."  
"It really isn't."  
"I've grown fond of him. And I like Hamish. It suits him."  
"You're fond of the head?"  
"Yes."  
"Right. Of course. Why shouldn't you be?"  
"There's that misplaced skepticism again. So. Beans on toast?"  
"No, I don't want any bloody beans! There's a head in the fridge!"  
"Yes, I know. I don't see what Hamish has got to do with the beans."  
"Well funnily enough I've lost my appetite. Why've you got to call the thing Hamish?"  
"It suits him. He looks like a Hamish. Are you actually upset about this?"  
"Oh, d'y'think?! I'm going to have a walk. I need some air."  
"Let me get my things on. I'll come along."  
"No, no. Won't do to leave Hamish on his own. Stay and entertain your new friend."  
"Come on, John. Don't be silly."  
"Think I will, thanks. See you later."

...

 

"Oh. Hullo. Have you come after me?"  
"Yes. That all right?"  
"Yeah, love fine. Sorry. I overreacted a bit, I suppose."  
"No, John. My fault. I'll take Ham- it back to Bart's. I can visit him there. Sorry."  
"You can call him Hamish, if you like."  
"You don't mind?"  
"Nah, it's fine."  
"It's a really nice name, John."  
"Ha yes, I think so too. I really am sorry I stormed out like that. Wanted to storm back in at once, but I felt like a prat and thought I'd have a turn around the block first."  
"That's how I always feel when I storm out. Erm. It was my fault, John. Completely. I should have just said what was up from the start."  
"Ha I dnno how you thought you might keep me out of the fridge for a week."  
"I just thought that seven o'clock in the morning was a bit early for you to meet Hamish."  
"Ha, yes. Bit early, love. Kiss and make up, then."  
"Mmm. So erm. Have you recovered your appetite?"  
"Yeah, but let's eat at the cafe."  
"I was just going to say."


	254. Chapter 254

"Well, don't you look smug? Are you planning some affectionate torment for me, my John?"  
"Affectionate torment? And why would I be doing a thing like that?"  
"Thought you might want to teach me a valuable lesson."  
"A valuable lesson about what, my lovely? Has your judgment failed you recently?"  
"I think you'd say so."  
"And you would agree?"  
"Even the best of us find ourselves in need of a, ah, firm, guiding hand from time to time."  
"So you're feeling in need of a bit of firm guidance?"  
"Well. From you."  
"Ah, I'm flattered."  
"Think you can manage it?"  
"Mmm, we'll see."  
"That's all I ask."  
"Lucky for you I'm around to steady you when you want steadying, love."  
"Mmm yes, John. I'm full aware of my luck."

...

“John?”  
“Yes, love? I’m here. In the sitting room.”  
“Ah there you are. John, where did this photograph come from?”  
“Well it’s yours, isn’t it?”  
“Of course it’s mine. It was in my bedroom before.”  
“Before you died.”  
“Yes, but it was gone after I came back. I looked for it in my things. I thought Mycroft had taken it. I even looked in my old bedroom when we visited his house. Did he send it back?”  
“Erm, no. I took it.”  
“You did?”  
“Yeah. Just after. Erm. Right.”  
“Why?”  
“It’s hard to put it into words, really. It made me really miserable. The photo.”  
“Did it?”  
“Yeah, erm. I didn’t really understand how things were. With Mycroft.”  
“How things were?”  
“I blamed him. Well. Him and myself. Toss-up between who I hated more some days.”  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
“Not your fault, lovely. Anyway, the photo made me really angry. He was your older brother and you know. The British government. He should have put a stop to it all. That’s how I felt. I didn’t know you were working together.”  
“I’m sorry I lied to you, John. I’m so sorry.”  
“It’s forgiven, lovely. More than. Tell me about the photo. It’s Halloween?”  
“Yes. The last Halloween before Mycroft went away.”  
“And you were a little pirate. I’ve got the urge for a time-travelling hug again, ha. You look so sweet!”  
“The Sherlock Holmes in this photograph would not have appreciated that remark at all, John.”  
“I should think not. He’d have made me walk the plank, I suppose.”  
“If you were lucky.”  
“What’s Mycroft supposed to be?”  
“A vampire, only he didn’t like to wear the false teeth.”  
“Ha, he just looks the same as he does now. Three piece pinstriped suit. I can even sort of imagine him in that collared cloak.”  
“So can I. He does love his little moments of theatricality.”  
“Well, we all have our failings.”  
“Indeed. Why did you decide to give the photo back, John?”  
“Well I was just up in the empty bedroom, and I found it there. I’d forgotten about it, honestly. But I saw it, and I thought you might want it. So I brought it down.”  
“Oh. So I did. Thank you, John.”  
“My pleasure, love. Anything for you.”


	255. Chapter 255

“You are in very serious trouble, John.”  
“Promises, promises.”  
“You’re only lucky I noticed your little addition before I left the flat.”  
“You really ought to make a habit of looking in the mirror before you leave in the morning, love. I’d think you’d already be in the habit; you’re so vain.”  
“I’m not vain; I’m particular. I didn’t know one could make that sort of thing out of paper.”  
“Make what sort of thing out of paper?”  
“Don’t toy with me, John.”  
“Bit late for that. What sort of thing did you mean, love?”  
“That hat. That bloody little paper death frisbee that you pinned to my hair while I was sleeping, you miscreant. And you made it so tiny, too.”  
“Right, well I’ve got talented fingers.”  
“Your talented fingers have cooked your goose, John.”  
“Ooo-er.”  
“You’re in for the pressing of your life, John Hamish Watson.”  
“I hope so. Talking of Hamish, how is he? You’re off visiting him, aren’t you?”  
“Yes. Why do you ask?”  
“Nothing in particular. Just wondering what you’re up to.”  
“What are you up to, John? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Still plotting against me?”  
“Me plotting? I’m the picture of innocence, my lovely love. See you at home in a bit.”  
“Mmm if not sooner.”  
“Ha, take your time. Wouldn’t do to neglect Hamish, now would it?”

...

 

You are a monster. How can you live with yourself?  
-SH 

 

Matched set, my lovely love. It’s easier with good company.

 

Back at the flat then? Found my present?

 

Where did they all come from?   
-SH 

 

Here and there. Charity shops mostly. I had my work cut out for me rounding them all up in secret.

 

That’s why it took me so long to strike. Been keeping them in 221C. 

 

Damn. I shouldn’t have told you that. Going to have to find a new hiding place.

 

The level of trouble that you put yourself to just to annoy me is really unseemly, John Watson.   
-SH 

 

You’re so pleased right now, you hardly know what to do with yourself. 

 

There’s nowhere to sit down, John. I’ve never seen so many hats in my life.   
-SH 

 

There’s a little present in amongst the hats, love. 

 

Is there?  
-SH 

 

Yes, there is. 

 

Where is it?  
-SH 

 

You tell me, Mr Clever. 

 

What sort of present is it, John?  
-SH 

 

A nice little present. No clues. Just look for it. 

 

Looking takes ages.  
-SH 

 

Can’t you deduce it?

 

What are its approximate dimensions?  
-SH 

 

It fits inside a hat. That’s all you’re getting from me, though. Good luck, love. 

 

I don’t need luck.  
-SH 

 

Not if you can deduce it. 

 

See you in a bit. If you’ve found your present, you can use it on me. 

 

What is it, John?  
-SH 

 

You’ll see. 

 

Infuriating man.  
-SH 

 

What if I refuse to handle your hats?  
-SH 

 

You can still have the present, but you’ll have to keep the hat it came in. I rather suspect that won’t be a problem, though. 

 

You are deluded.   
-SH 

 

Oh, I don’t know. It’s a very special hat. Once you’ve spotted this one, you’ll know it couldn’t have been any of the others. 

 

I thought you weren’t going to give me any clues.   
-SH 

 

Tricking you makes me feel very sympathetic towards you, love. 

 

Your pity disgusts me.  
-SH 

 

You must be very pleased indeed about your present. Steady on, now. Don’t let yourself be carried away by your ardour. 

 

You and your insolence. Don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgotten the pressing I promised you earlier.   
-SH 

 

Well, I should hope not.


	256. Chapter 256

I laughed when I walked into the flat that evening. Sherlock had piled the hats up in a very large heap in the sitting room. Apart from that, it was rather atmospheric. He’d lit a fire and there was soft, bright piano music playing. And Sherlock was sat in his chair in his dressing gown, freshly showered with his damp hair brushed back from his face.  
He had a glass of wine held loosely in his hand, and he looked to the door and smiled at me as I came in.

“I don’t know if it’s the firelight that makes me want the Chopin,” he remarked waving his free hand in time with the music as if conducting, “or the Chopin that makes me want the firelight. Either way they make nice bedfellows, don’t you think John?”

I grinned as I hung up my coat, “They’re perfect for each other.”

“This is Waltz No One in D Flat Major, John. For your records.” He affected a frown, “What are you still doing all the way over there? You’ve been home nearly twenty-seven seconds, and yet I remain unkissed. Tut tut, John.”

I grinned and crossed the room to kiss him, “Sorry love. That better?”

“Mmm, moderately. Though I imagine you’ll need to refresh me soon, John. Sit. Let me pour you a glass.” I sat. Sherlock stood and took the bottle and a glass down from the mantel, poured a glass and handed it to me. He poured a bit more wine into his own glass before he reseated himself.

“Is that number three or number four?” I asked.

“Sorry?” he asked with a smile that belied the question.

I had a sip before I answered. “Well, going from the level of wine left in the bottle and the way your tongue tastes rather, erm, saturated you’ve had a few already, haven’t you?”

Sherlock grinned, “Look at you deducing, John. I feel quite denuded. Well that’ll teach me not to be quite so affectionate quite so early in our tête à tête, won’t it? If you’re going to be drawing deductions from the flavour of my tongue.”

“Number four, then?”

Sherlock laughed, “Three and a half.”

I didn’t tell him because it would have annoyed him, but I could tell that he’d had a few from his voice as well. Despite his garrulousness, he was speaking slightly more slowly than usual, and his sibilant sounds had softened nearly to a lisp. Very charming (as Sherlock would have said)(if he found the evidence of his own intoxication charming, which he doesn’t). “Are these celebratory drinks or are you consoling yourself for not having managed to find your present, despite your very methodical search?” I indicated the the heap of hats with my elbow. In answer, Sherlock reached down to the right of his chair, raised a black, tricorn pirate’s hat, tipped it at me and solemnly dropped it onto his head. I grinned. “Very dashing.” It actually was. The bastard looks dashing in everything. “The hat isn’t the gift though, you know.”

“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You know I didn’t look through all these, John. Once I saw this one,” he made a little bow to indicate the hat on his head, “I knew I’d found my man, so to speak.”

“A coup de foudre,” I agreed.

Sherlock smiled, “Exactly.”

“And you’ve found your gift, then?”

“Obviously.”

“I would have thought you’d be a bit more eager to put it to use, love.”

Sherlock took a long draw on his glass of wine. “Very eager, John. But I can be patient, when I think it worth my while.”

“Oh, you’re being patient, are you? What for?”

Sherlock smiled, “Mmm I’ve a particular scenario in mind for the first deployment of your lovely present, John. I’m building towards a perfect moment.”

“A perfect moment, eh? Tremendously ambitious of you. How’s that going?”

Sherlock bounced an eyebrow at me, “Quite well. You’re being very cooperative, John.”

“Ah, well,” I grinned. “I do my best. Does the perfect moment involve the hat?”

Sherlock laughed and laughed. “If you like.”


	257. Chapter 257

John is flushed. His cheeks are pink, his eyes are bright, his hairline is sweat-dampened. He has only just got his breath back. Here is my perfect moment. Lean down off the edge of the bed, grab the tie of my dressing gown, and drag it near enough that I can reach into the pocket and grab John’s gift. A stethoscope. Brilliant. Of course. I am one of John’s primary areas of brilliance. What an odd thought. Delicious, though. John studies me like I study him, though not as methodically. Or perhaps he’s just better at hiding his experiments than I am(!). No way to tell for sure. Anyway the temptation to fiddle with his data would be too great. Best not press it.

John’s leaned on his elbow, sitting up to watch me. I turn to him and press him down onto his pillows so that he’s laid flat, put the eartips of the stethoscope in my ears, and breathe on the diaphragm to warm it slightly before I press it against his chest. There’s a bit of sweat on his chest, too. Smells lovely (buttery). I’d rather like to taste it, but I know I’m already doing something a bit invasive (though at John’s suggestion and through his assistance) and I don’t want to overwhelm him. He isn’t Hamish.

Slide the diaphragm around until I can hear the thudding of his heart quite clearly. It’s quick (as I knew it would be). Elevated. Make a bit of a meal of looking at my watch and taking his heart rate, but all I really want is to listen to him. My metronome. Best sound in the world. Sound of John Watson. I can’t decide if it’s soothing or exciting. Both in turns, I suppose.

Keep my eyes fixed on my watch, but know without really looking (I sneak a glance; he’s irresistible) that John is watching me, holding in a grin.

After a minute has passed, I remove the eartips, shake my head and tut at him, “Elevated, John. Overexcited for some reason, I see. Just what are we going to do with you?”

“This is your doing, you know,” John tells me, his face just barely serious but that grin coming through in his tone. “You and that hat.”

“Oh you find the hat overstimulating, do you? Well as the procurer of the hat, I’m afraid that lays all this right back in your lap.”

“My lap can take it,” John says with a little smirk. He holds out one arm, inviting me to make a pillow of him. Invitation accepted with pleasure. I take the stethoscope off first, then flop toward John and rather crash into him. “Careful now,” says John. I’m situating my head and making sure that his arm is round my shoulders just so, and I can’t see his face, but I can hear that little smirk in his voice.

“Now John,” I say, then pause to kiss the patch of his skin most convenient to my mouth, which happens to be in the neighbourhood of his right armpit. This elicits a little squirm of ticklishness from John. John is not a squirmer, nor is he particularly ticklish (have made investigations into both subjects, which I see I will have to renew) so this must be repeated. He squirms again (little edge of panic to it this time)(lovely). That’ll have to slake my urge to make John squirm for the moment (it mounts in me so quickly that I’m sure it’ll pop up again before it’s really due). Clear my throat and begin again. “Now, John. I hope you’re not suggesting that I ever treat you with anything less than the utmost tenderness.”

John laughs heartily enough that I should probably be rather insulted, but it’s such a sincere sound that it makes me smile, too. “Wouldn’t dream of it, lovely. Complete rubbish anyway, isn’t it?”

“Utter rubbish, John.” Quash the urge to try the tickling again. John seems to know what I’m thinking (or he feels particularly affectionate) because he uses the arm around my shoulders to tug gently at me and hitch me a little higher on his chest. Out of tickling range (probably)(no! dangerous to presume without data!). No matter. Will resume the investigation later.

John puts a hand in my hair, and I ‘mmmm’ a bit on my next exhalation. “So lovely, how was your perfect moment?”

“Sublime,” I say at once. John is silent for a moment, as if considering, then he chuckles. “Just what are you sniggering at, John?”

“Sorry love,” he says, still giggling a bit. “I was only thinking how ridiculous it is that you mean that.”

“Ridiculous?!”

My exclamation causes a renewal in hilarity, and it’s a moment before John answers, “Sorry to step on your post-coital sweet nothings, my lovely love,” John pauses and glances at me to be sure that I’m scowling at his terminology (I am) before he continues. “It’s just that you’ve got rather a talent for taking these tiny, little, things and loading them up with significance. Sometimes it amazes me that you’re ever bored. You find so much to be fascinated by.”

“You fascinate me, John Hamish Watson, and don’t let me catch you pretending again that it’s not all calculated down to your very last freckle, you witch!” Here John interrupts to kiss me. This is the sort of interruption that I am generally magnanimous enough to allow, so it goes on rather a long time (28 seconds which, in certain contexts, can be a very long time). John releases me (he’d been holding onto my hair rather tightly)(mmm), licking his lips and looking smug. I’ll see to that. “It’s ridiculous to suggest that the size of something ought to have any bearing on its significance, John,” I say as if the interruption had not occurred. “Anyway, to the really great mind, nothing is little.”


	258. Chapter 258

“Good god Molly, what on earth are you wearing?”  
“Oi! Rude!”  
“You look like you’re in disguise as yourself.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“You’re wearing a cardigan with a cat on it.”  
“It’s cute!”  
“Painfully so.”  
“You like cats.”  
“Not indiscriminately. I can vouch for two, but that’s all. Anyway, we all have our limits. Applique cats ought be one of yours.”  
“Well, I like it. Have you not met Toby and Felicia?”  
“Toby and Felicia?”  
“My cats.”  
“Yes, I gathered. I was sneering at your choice in names.”  
“I gathered. Want to come round and meet them?”  
“How does one meet a cat? Do cats shake hands?”  
“How did you meet yours?”  
“Well John introduced me to Smoke. And I found Skip, er, living in a skip.”  
“That’s why you called her Skip?”  
“I suppose so.”  
“Oh, bless you. It’s like you’re seven.”  
“Shut up, Molly.”  
“So you want to come round?”  
“Sure, I’ll follow you home.”  
“Tonight?”  
“Is that all right.”  
“Yeah, I suppose so.”  
“All right, then.”

...

After we agree on this evening for cat introductions, Sherlock and I sit in a silence that makes me feel a bit pessimistic. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He alternates between attaching his face to his microscope and burying it behind his little notepad. It’s all right really. This is one of his quiet silences not a loud one. When it’s time to go for the night, and I’ve gathered my things, Sherlock is already standing by the door, waiting for me. “Ready?” I say. He only raises his eyebrows and holds the door for me.

To my surprise, when we reach the pavement in front of the building, Sherlock holds out his elbow. That would have been such a thrill for me not too long ago. Funny how things change. Even now I dither a moment before I take it.

Sherlock's head snaps toward me (he'd been looking in the opposite direction) and he says, "Oh. Erm. All right."

I drop his arm at once and say, "Sorry! Thought you were, erm. Right."

Sherlock holds up his gloved right hand and says, "I was looking for my gloves. In my pocket."

"Gloves. Right. Sorry." My face is getting a bit warm, and I hope it's too twilight-y for him to see if it's changing colour. He gives me this annoying cocked-eyebrow half smile while he pulls on his other glove, then offers me his arm again.

He chuckles when I don't take it and says, "It's only an arm, Molly. It doesn't bite."

"Oh shut up," I say and take his stupid arm. I immediately wish I hadn't because he walks so fast and doesn't seem to mind that he rather drags me along.

After a minute or so, Sherlock glances at me, scrunches his nose, and says, "God, Molly. You're slower than John. How do you ever get anywhere?"

"Well slow down! You're taller than I am; your legs are longer." Sherlock gives me an extremely exaggerated eye-roll and slows to a painful plod. "There now. That's not so horrible, is it?" I say.

"Likely I won't drop dead of it, if that's what you're getting at," he sniffs.

"The cats will keep," I tell him. "And this way, we can have a chat while we walk."

"Oh joy," he mutters, and I jab him with my elbow. "Such violence, Molly Hooper!" and he jabs back, a bit gentler than I got him, I think.

"Should we have John along?" I suggest. "He's met them already, but we can do drinks or something after." Instead of answering out loud, Sherlock digs into his pocket with his free hand and taps out a text faster than anyone has a right to text one-handed. "How do you do that with your gloves on?" I ask.

"They've got the thing in the fingerpad that lets you type with them," he says, stowing his phone in the breast pocket of his jacket. "John got them for me."

“Of course he did.” Sherlock only gives me that sideways look that he gives me when he can’t be bothered to actually open his mouth and ask me what the hell I’m on about.

After a moment, he pulls his phone out of his pocket again, and it must be John because he gets this derpy little grin that he doesn’t know he gets. He texts back with both hands this time, keeping his arm looped through mine.

Then he puts the phone back in his pocket and barks, “John’s busy at the moment, but he’ll be finished soon. He says to text him when we go for drinks, and he’ll meet up with us.”

I smile and say, “Sorry, there’s no hiding it.”

“Hiding what?” Sherlock’s trying to sneer. He can’t sneer about John, though.

“You are sweet together. Fact of the universe. Sorry. Nothing to be done about it.”

His mouth twitches, “You think I’m embarrassed that I feel…” but it seems the use of the word ‘feel’ is too feel-y for Sherlock because he stops and starts over. “He’s my husband,” he says with a shrug.

“I did say ‘sweet together,’ right? Not ‘revolting together’? Most people would take it as a compliment.”

“Ergh!” Sherlock says so vehemently that I burst out laughing and have to cover my mouth with my free hand. He glares at me, which only makes me laugh harder. Sherlock stops walking abruptly so that he can stand shaking his head and tutting at me until I’ve done laughing. “Have you quite recovered yourself, Molly?” he asks in a tone that would have made me feel a bit queasy back when I would have been thrilled to be offered his arm.

“Sorry yeah, sorry,” I say, still giggling a bit. He offers his arm again, and I take it, and we walk on. “Funny how things change, isn’t it?” I say after a bit. Sherlock doesn’t answer.

He usually lets these little openers go by without replying, so I press on. “I mean the cat you’re about to meet was almost your namesake.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve read your blog,” he says, and I’m proud that I’m hardly even embarrassed. Also a little relieved that I don’t have to explain the significance of the cat being his namesake.

“It’s a bit weird to think of, you know. That I used to think you were so, erm…” I trail off there, but he’s nodding, so I pick it up again. “ And now it’s like you’re my older brother.”

“How very overt of you, Molly,” says Sherlock. But he looks pleased.

“It’s so much nicer this way, isn’t it? We’ve all got it all sorted out now.”

Sherlock looks absolutely smug now. “Yes,” he says. “It is much nicer.” And he tucks my arm into his a little bit tighter.


	259. Chapter 259

I’m going to be late. I missed my train. 

 

Whoops.  
-SH 

 

You bastard. What’d you have to straighten my tie for?

 

It was crooked.  
-SH 

 

You knew what you were about, too. You gave me this look. 

 

Oh John, such an active imagination. One of your finer virtues.  
-SH 

 

Though I can think of several other very, very fine virtues.  
-SH 

 

You don’t have to be so smug about taking advantage of my complete inability to resist you. Bastard. 

 

John, I can’t even scratch my nose without you calling me a smug bastard.  
-SH 

 

That wasn’t exactly scratching your nose, was it?

 

Mmm no, not exactly.  
-SH 

 

There’s that smugness again. 

 

Indeed.  
-SH 

 

Well I hope you’ll pardon me for cutting short our correspondence, John but I really must have a shower.  
-SH 

 

Bastard. 

 

Have a nice day!  
-SH 

...

“Aren’t you embarrassed to so openly admit to manipulating me?”  
“Is it a secret? From whom are we hiding it?”  
“I think it’s generally customary to be a bit demure about the fact that you’ve got some one wrapped around your little finger.”  
“‘Generally customary’? Do you hear yourself? What’s generally customary got to do with me?”  
“You can be a bit generally customary for me, can’t you?”  
“It’s not a question of whether I can, but why would you want that?”  
“Fair enough. But it’s still my turn to choose the tea.”  
“Ergh, fine. What do you want?”  
“Lady Grey.”  
“No, John. Lady Grey is wrong.”  
“There’s no such thing as wrong tea, Sherlock.”  
“Yes, there is! Lady Grey is wrong! And you put milk in it! They don’t marry well at all. Monster.”  
“Matched set, yes love?”  
“Not in this respect... John, no. John, don’t look at me like a scolded puppy. Oh all right. Matched set.”  
“Put the kettle on, will you, love? And get the milk out.”  
“Monster. You and your enormous eyes. Who’s the manipulative one now, John?”  
“Ha, matched set, love.”

...

“What are you laughing at, John?”  
“Ha, you.”  
“Me?!”  
“It just suddenly struck me as funny that I used to think you were so aloof.”  
“I am aloof.”  
“Ha, if this is your idea of aloof, I’d hate to see what you think is clingy.”  
“Clingy?!”  
“Erm love, you do know you’re sitting in my lap with your arms around my neck, wearing my jumper? You are aware of that?”  
“I was chilly. There’s a draught. And I’m not sitting in your lap.”  
“Yes, you are!”  
“No, I’ve got my legs across your legs. That’s not the same as sitting in your lap.”  
“That’s a technicality.”  
“Details make all the difference, John.”  
“Sometimes I think that if you’d fit, you’d ride around on my shoulder like a parrot.”  
“I would actually. I may try it.”  
“And that’s aloof?”  
“Are you accusing me of crowding you, John?”  
“No. Well you do crowd me, but I quite like it.”  
“Yes, I know. I just thought you must be making some point, and I was trying to help you along.”  
“Ha, generous of you, love.”  
“Yes, my nurturing spirit is one of my finer virtues. You were getting to your point.”  
“Well sometimes it’s like you need it. The touching. Like it puts you right.”  
“Yes. Fiddle with my hair. Mmm, perfect. Thank you, John.”  
“I do like to hear you ‘mmm’ like that. It’s like you’re purring.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”  
“You’re always asking me to touch you. Or touching me. And it puts you right?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m glad I can do that. Help you like that.”  
“I know. So am I.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Hmm?”  
“What did you do before?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Did you just go about feeling unright?”  
“Stop looking at me like I break your heart, John.”  
“You don’t break my heart, love.”  
“You’ve always helped to put me right, John. Even when it wasn’t like this.”  
“Have I?”  
“Don’t be stupid.”  
“Thanks for letting me look after you. It’s a relief.”  
“A relief?”  
“Yeah. You understand, don’t you, love?”  
“Yes, actually. Yes. I think I do.”


	260. Chapter 260

BORED  
Sherlock Holmes here. John is too indolent to update this blog with any regularity, so I’ve availed myself of it in order to remind you that I exist. Be interesting for me, and I may fix you. In other words (if you’re dull enough to need them), I’m accepting new clients. Or if you like, commit an intelligent crime, and I’ll catch you. Whichever. I’m not choosy. Well. That’s not entirely true.

Comments (39):

John Watson:  
Nice one. You sound really sympathetic.

Sherlock Holmes:  
If you think you can solicit custom with more elegance, perhaps you should bother yourself about it once in a while. This is what happens when I take matters into my own hands, John.

John Watson:  
Yeah, I know a bit about that.

Molly Hooper:  
You two always do that.

Sherlock Holmes:  
You are imagining things.

Molly Hooper:  
I’m not stupid. I know you do it on purpose. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Nearly all of the things I do are on purpose. I don’t dare to speak for John, however. 

John Watson:  
Ha!

G Lestrade:  
Now remember the nice little chats we’ve had about not inviting people to commit crimes just to entertain you? Where did we land on that?

Sherlock Holmes:  
No. 

G Lestrade:  
Just ‘no’ isn’t a proper answer to the question. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It was not a sincerely meant question, so it does not merit more of an answer than a syllable. The syllable was generous, if you ask me. 

Harry Watson:  
Bored, are you? Does that mean it’s been too long since someone tried to kill you? Hope that means you’re keeping John out of trouble. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Someone tried to kill me last week actually, and it was dull as dirt. 

John Watson:  
I’m the one who keeps him out of trouble. Right, Sherlock?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Not at all. As a pair, we court trouble with unparalleled ardour. 

John Watson:  
Thanks a lot. That was meant to reassure Harry.

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’m afraid even Harry is not likely to find your half-hearted, paper-thin falsehoods particularly reassuring. Denial only stretches so far, John. 

Harry Watson:  
Oi!

G Lestrade:  
If you’re so bored, why won’t you consult on the thing with the accountant? I practically begged you. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I did, you dullard. The key is in his necktie. I told you that at once. 

G Lestrade:  
His necktie? When did you mention a necktie?

Sherlock Holmes:  
In your office! I said ‘mind the necktie.’ It was the first thing out of my mouth! Don’t you remember?!

G Lestrade:  
Well what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Why do I bother? What’s more, why do you lot bother? Isn't it exhausting to fail so constantly? Text him, will you John?

John Watson:  
Doing it now. And you don’t have to be such a tosser. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Fine. John, will you PLEASE text the idiot?

John Watson:  
Missing the point, Sherlock.

G Lestrade:  
Yeah, the point is that you should stop calling your friends idiots!

Sherlock Holmes:  
I was calling you an idiot in a professional capacity. Socially you’re an idiot as well, but I don’t consider it my place to tell you so. 

G Lestrade:  
You’re in rare form tonight. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I’m really not. 

John Watson:  
That’s enough! You two stop rowing, or I’ll disable the comments. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Spoilsport. 

G Lestrade:  
Got to dash, actually. Thanks for the tip. Drinks soon? 

John Watson:  
Yeah, see you soon! Send us a text. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You’ll have to come round the flat, Greg. If you make me sit in another pub, I may burn the place to the ground. 

G Lestrade:  
Right. I’ll just pretend you didn’t say that. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I didn’t say it; I typed it. And you’ve got dashing to do. Pip pip.


	261. Chapter 261

“I can’t believe you held on while he was kicking you like that. Actually, strike that. I can believe it. You really do raise bloody-mindedness to an art form. You’re like a really lanky bulldog.”  
“Don’t make me laugh, John. I beg you. I’d faint; I’m sure.”  
“I thought you don’t faint.”  
“Never had bruised ribs before.”  
“Really? Never?”  
“How special it must be for you to escort me through all these little inaugurations.”  
“Bloody hell, you look awful.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Ha sorry.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
“No stitches, though. That’s lucky. And I suppose the lump will go down in a bit.”  
“They generally do.”  
“I’ve gone soft, haven’t I? Since when do I do warning shots?”  
“Ah, well. You’ve grown sophisticated. Light touch. Anyway, if you’d splashed that idiot’s idiot brains all over me, I’d have been very cross.”  
“I do like this shirt.”  
“Exactly. Anyway, the lump and the bruised ribs will sort themselves soon enough. It is so tedious to scoop brain back into skull from off the street. And you can’t help but get bits of gravel in as well. Messy business.”  
“Right.”  
“I’m glad you were there, John.”  
“So’m I.”  
“Have they caught him?”  
“Yeah, Lestrade just texted me that he confessed.”  
“What, to attacking me?”  
“To all of it.”  
“Mm, that was quick. I don’t like it. I’ll want to hear his confession.”  
“You’ll hear it later. You need to rest.”  
“I didn’t mean right this moment, John.”  
“Nor any of tomorrow’s moments.”  
“John, be reasonable.”  
“It’ll keep, Sherlock. And you’ll likely feel worse tomorrow. You’re still full of adrenaline.”   
“The day after tomorrow, then.”  
“We’ll see.”  
“Tyrant.”

...

"Love, I need you to take nice, proper, deep breaths for me."  
"I'm trying, John."  
"I know it hurts, love. Just a bit deeper or you’re going to have a headache as well."  
"A little garnish for my misery."  
"Ha, right. There we are. That's better. You're doing brilliantly."  
"Don't patronise, John. One doesn't breathe brilliantly."  
"Sometimes one does. All right now move your hand. I'll swap out your ice pack."  
"Breathing is always boring, John. Never brilliant, no matter how much it hurts."  
"Sometimes it's quite brilliant, actually. Trust me. I'm a doctor. There. That better?"  
"Marginally. Thank you."  
"My pleasure, love. I can give you some more paracetemol in about an hour."  
"I assure you that my heart sings at the notion, John."  
"Do you need another pillow?"  
"No, I've found the least agonising position to lie in. Don't want to cock it up trying to make myself more comfortable."  
"Do you need an ice pack for your face?"  
"No, thank you. The lovely thing about having bruised ribs is that they render little things like black eyes rather a pale discomfort in comparison."  
"Still, I don't like the swelling. I'll get you something for it."  
"Wait a moment, John. Just sit with me a moment and keep blathering. It's a bit. Isolating. All this convalescing."  
"Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. Ha. Erm. I can't think of anything to say. Sorry. Er. Any requests?"  
"Anything, John. I just want to hear your voice. I'd like to think of something other than how ready I am to give up the luxury of a rib cage altogether. Tell me what a complete idiot I am for getting myself into these things, and how if I don't stop putting you through this, you'll never forgive me and other fond endearments of that nature."  
"I’m not going to waste my breath repeating that rubbish. I'll invent my own fond endearments, thank you."  
"If you insist, but deploy them at once, by all means."  
"All right now don't rush me, love. Fond endearments take a bit of time to invent. Oh, I was thinking about something while you were having your x-ray done."  
"Do tell."  
"Well your brother once said to me-"  
"Ergh Mycroft."  
"Doesn't it hurt to huff like that?"  
"Yes, lots. Goes to show how much I dislike hearing Mycroft’s words come out of your mouth."  
"Well shut up, and let me carry on with my endearments. I'm just setting the stage. Right, where was I? Oh yes. Your brother once said to me that you might well have been a scientist, but you chose to be a detective and that there was something to be deduced about your heart from that fact.”  
“Did he now? My.”  
“I rather agree with him, actually. I think about that all the time. I’ve got a bit of a theory going, actually.”  
“Have you? I seem to recall asking to hear your theory, actually.”  
“Did you? When? I don’t remember that.”  
“It was when I was dead.”  
“Oh. Well, would you like to hear it now?”  
“Yes, of course obviously I would. Do get on with it, John.”  
“Right, well it’s something I noticed about you straight away. You always do the right thing. Now don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m not finished. Whenever you see your way forward, whenever you know what the thing to do is, you just. Do it. You go right in, without a second thought. It’s this kind of fearlessness. It’s rather incredible. It’s a sort of confident clarity. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s. Magnetic. My idea is that you see it as your duty. Detecting and that. Helping along the mortals, ha. You know what to do, and we don’t, so you feel you’ve got to sort us out.”  
“You give me far, far too much credit, John.”  
“I suppose you’re mortal in your own way. Mortal enough to bruise your ribs, anyway.”  
“Are you really still so starry-eyed over me, John?”  
“I admire you. I’m allowed. Anyway, keeps you in Nice Things, doesn’t it?”  
“So it does.”  
“We haven’t had a Nice Thing in a while. Would you like one, love? This evening?”  
“Mmm, perhaps. Perhaps in a bit. Just sit with me a bit longer. Please.”  
“I’m right here, my lovely. Just as long as you’d like.”


	262. Chapter 262

“Shut up John, stop it shut up.”  
“I would do love, if I were saying or doing anything. Fair warning, if you tell me I’m breathing too loudly, I will smother you with your pillow. Don’t put it past me to take advantage of you in your weakened state. It’s an opportunity I’ve been waiting for.”  
“Laughing really hurts, and you keep making jokes and saying funny things and pulling faces. Like just now.”  
“What when I threatened to kill you?”  
“And your eyebrows are hilarious right now. Just stop it. Turn your face away, John. I can’t bear it.”  
“You’re not even laughing!”  
“Holding it in is worse. Please stop looking at me, John. I’m not strong enough. Have pity on me.”  
“Right well I was about to have a listen to your lungs, but I’ll try not to be funny while I do it. Budge up now. Okay, it’ll be a bit cold.”  
“Ooh!”  
“Did that hurt?”  
“It’s just a bit cold.”  
“Yeah, I’ve just said it would be.”  
“Well I’m agreeing with you.”  
“Ha, shut up for me love and take a deep breath. Deeper, if you can. And let it out slowly. Good. And one more time, love. Good. All right, everything in order. No congestion. That’s great. How’s the pain?”  
“Bit like I was recently kicked repeatedly in the ribs by a large and very determined man.”  
“Answer properly. Remember that you’re addressing Doctor Watson.”  
“Nobody calls you Doctor Watson. Oh all right, then. No need to go all stony. It’s a tiny bit better.”  
“Good. Well, it’ll take time. A few weeks.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“So how was that?”  
“How do you mean, John?”  
“Not funny, was it?”  
“It was a bit funny.”  
“How could it have been?”  
“You pull funny faces when you’re trying not to be funny, John. There’s nothing for it. You’re funny.”  
“Well. To you.”  
“Oh, then you deny that you’re a complete and unrepentant smart arse?”  
“Waste of time, it’d be, wouldn’t it?”  
“Quite a waste of time, John.”  
“But I’m not constantly making smart remarks.”  
“The things you say are only a bit of it. Your whole face is sarcastic. And somehow so are your shoulders and even your hands. You’re so expressive. You don’t just make a smart remark, it’s like your whole body is a smart remark.”  
“Well. I don’t really know what to make of that, love.”  
“What’s odd is that I didn’t realise that you do it before I started noticing every time I laugh. Do you know how much you make me laugh, John? Constantly.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Generally it’s one of my favourite things about you, but at the moment, it’s really hurting me.”  
“Well, I suppose we could cover me in a dust sheet until you’re better.”  
“Please, John. Have mercy.”


	263. Chapter 263

"You look a bit gloomy, love."  
"Do I?"  
"Are you in pain?"  
"Same level of excruciating as five minutes ago, John, but thank you for asking. I never get tired of that subject."  
"Sorry. Do you need some more ibuprofen?"  
"Actually I've decided to switch to leprechaun hugs and unicorn kisses for pain management. Equally effective. Less liver damage."  
"Right."  
"Erm sorry, John. I'll give this one a bit more time to kick in. Ha. So to speak."  
"I'll get you another ice pack."  
"It's all right. This one's still cold. I'm just a bit. Out of sorts. You know."  
"Have you got something on your mind, love?"  
"It's stupid."  
"Well that's all right. I like stupid. I'm a genius idiot, you know. Makes me feel at home. Let's have it."  
"All right then. I-I miss you."  
"Here I am."  
"Yes, there you are. Never mind. I told you it was stupid."  
"Tell me. Go on then."  
"Well, you've hardly touched me since my little mishap, and I suppose I really depend on it. I'm a bit. Lonely."  
"Oh. Oh god, I'm sorry, love. I didn't realise. Doesn't it hurt, though? I've been rather afraid of jarring you."  
"Everything hurts, John! Breathing hurts, and nevertheless is still really really boring. I can scarcely do anything at all, and I have to plan out everything I can do from start to finish and make sure there isn't any bending or leaning or turning in it. And fuck me, if I drop something. And it's all really stressful and really really dull like regular boring caseless life but amplified. And I just want to touch you and hold you and wrap round you to make myself feel better. And there you are. And here I am. And. It just seems a really long way between. And I sound ridiculous, and I'll shut up now. Sorry. Didn't mean to shout."  
"Oh love, don't apologise. I'm sorry. I didn't know."  
"I know you didn't! I don't expect you to actually read my mind. I'm just. I know I've got a long ways to go in getting back to normal, so I'm trying not to, erm, get myself worked up. To borrow a phrase."  
"Not too long. A monthish."  
"A monthish is an age, John."  
"Yeah. I know. It can be an age."  
"It makes me think of before."  
"Before?"  
"You know. Back when I spent a lot of my time erm. Wishing.”  
“That doesn’t do, does it?”  
“I know there isn’t anything you can do about it, John. I’m not blaming you. I just. I wanted to tell you, and I knew you’d want me to tell you. Feels better not to have to keep it in.”  
“Yeah, of course it does. Well. Let me think on this; I'll sort it out for us somehow. In the meantime, let’s have a bit from the tin. That’ll make us feel better, yes?”  
“It generally does.”

…

“Mind if I sit here?”  
“What do you think, John?”  
“Ha, all right. Point taken. Just tell me if I jar you.  
“I expect I’ll survive. Feels a bit strange to sit so stiffly while we do this, doesn’t it?”  
“Well, here. Take my hand. How’s that?”  
“Better, John. Thank you.”

…

Hullo love,  
It’s wrong, I suppose, that I think you look really really gorgeous in that hat.  
Yours,  
John

…

“Not at all wrong, John. I look incredible in that hat.”  
“You really do. I’m glad you kept it.”  
“Mmm, so’m I.”

...

John,  
You’ve fallen asleep slumped on my lap, and I’ve just noticed something horrible. You’ve an extraneous button halfway up each of your sleeves, near your elbows. They puzzle me utterly. I’ve buttoned your left sleeve to my pyjama trousers. Very interested to see what you make of it when you wake up. I expect you’ll be a bit surprised.  
-S

…

“Still annoyed about that, you prat. And you know what the button is for. It’s to button the sleeve to the elbow when you turn it up.”  
“No, sorry John. That’s nonsense, and I don’t want to hear it again.”

….

John,  
You’re applying lip balm with the cap held in your mouth. I can see your tongue.  
-S

 

Hullo love,  
I’d have shot him, you know. I really would have. But I knew they’d take me in if I did, and I wanted to go with you to hospital. I know you hate it, and I didn’t want you to be alone.  
Yours,  
John 

…

“I knew that actually.”  
“I thought you might. I only wanted you to be very, very sure.”  
“I am.”  
“Good.”  
“John?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“Since I can’t climb all over you and kiss you like I normally would do, I’ve just got to tell you. I adore you, John, and I would be lost without you.”  
“Well. Matched set.”


	264. Chapter 264

"I must confess something, love."  
"Unburden yourself, John."  
"I've always wanted to do this."  
"Have you really? Why've you never proposed it?"  
"Well at first I was a bit shy. Then there was the haircut incident."  
"Ah right. Incident is such a gentle word for it."  
"I'm sorry! Though your barber did make something very nice of it, actually."  
"So you say."  
"Though you've got that stupid tall, dark, and handsome thing going on. You always look fantastic."  
"Don't forget how cool and mysterious I am with my cheekbones."  
"How could I possibly forget that, love?"  
"So you've been too intimidated by my good looks to fiddle with my hair, John?"  
"Fiddle?! No, this has all been quite scientific."  
"Scientific?"  
"Yes."  
"Dear me. I hope you didn't hurt yourself."  
"Brave of you to speak that way to a man who literally holds your coiffure in his hands. Some lanky berk once called me a butcher, if I recall correctly."  
"My apologies, John. Explain to me how your hairdressing has been scientific. I'm ever so fascinated with the concept."  
"Well first I get a fingerful of-"  
"Wait, wait. I'll just take notes, if you'll pass me my pad. It's a bit out of reach. Thank you, John. Now is that a metric or an imperial finger? No, silly me. What am I thinking? You did say 'scientific,' so I'll just assume metric, yes?"  
"Yes, metric. And I swoosh it about-"  
"How many swooshes, John? Clockwise? Anticlockwise? You're leaving out so many steps. Perhaps you should just show me your lab report."  
"Well you've just joked yourself out of my secret swooshing method, clever boots."  
"Hoisted by my own petard. I knew one of these days my smart mouth would get the better of me."  
"And now it has."  
"And now it has. At long last. Clever boots?"  
"Yes. Clever boots."  
"Just checking I heard you properly."  
"You did. You're a clever boots."  
"Thank you, John. A badge I shall wear with pride."  
"Do."  
"I will."  
"Do."

...

"Oooh I like this.”  
“What do you like, John?”  
“You’ve got your evil genius face on.”  
“My evil genius face?”  
“Yeah, don’t sham you don’t know you’ve got one.”  
“I think you may be projecting, John.”  
“Projecting? You mean I’m the evil genius?”  
“If the cap fits.”  
“Would the evil genius cap be the pirate hat?”  
“Don’t talk rubbish, John.”  
“Sorry, love. I don’t know what I was thinking.”  
“Getting a bit sick of your sloppy thinking, John.”  
“Sorry love. So sorry.”  
“I forgive you.”  
“Generous as ever, lovely.”  
“One of my finer virtues. Anyway. You were saying?”  
“Your evil genius face. What are you scheming about?”  
“Oh just a few ideas for my own convenience and some things I want to try when I’m recovered.”  
“Things? What sort of things?”  
“Mmm you’ll see.”  
“You’re not going to tell me?”  
“Before I execute them, certainly. Immediately before, though, I’m afraid. You’ll have to be patient.”  
“Well, I’m good at that.”  
“So you are. Very good.”  
“They're things to do with me, I suppose.”  
“You’ll see.”  
“Well, I like surprises. So long as they aren’t in the fridge.”  
“Poor old Hamish.”  
“Right, there’s a limit to my patience.”  
“Yes, and I amuse us both by dancing up against its edge from time to time.”  
“Oh, those are efforts to amuse me, are they? Generous of you.”  
“One of my finer virtues.”


	265. Chapter 265

I'm sat in my chair, holding my violin, sort of idly fingering the notes to John's composition. I played through what I've got of the piece earlier in the day, but I'm too sore to continue. Still though. It's comforting to hold the instrument, even when I can't play it. Makes me feel more myself. I've a tendency to collect talismans. Something I recently realised about myself (came upon Irene's phone among my effects the other day; it quite startled me).

In the past (before John took the office), my violin (Celeste) served as proof to myself (and to observant and sensitive others)(so to no others)(John perhaps excluded)(John definitely excluded, now I think of it properly)(John is the exception to most of my nihilistic pronouncements about humanity) that there is more to me than my calculating exterior. I have human feelings, and I even allow myself a few outlets for them.

If I could play comfortably, I'd have been playing all day. That sort of day. Now I'm just waiting for John to get in. I'm growing quite an expert at waiting. I thought I'd been good at it before. It seems I've spent most of my life waiting to drift into the next tolerable bit. Not much since I met John, but even with him in my life, there have been desolate patches (the year I was dead, for instance)(don't think of that now; it's a pit)(can't afford a pit; couldn't climb out of it at the moment; would horrify John).

Impatience is a luxury and one I’d been overindulging in. I have been trying to correct that. Cultivating my self-discipline and my steadiness. Easier to do things like that when I do them for John. Something solid to aim for. I will look after myself because looking after myself is looking after John. Satisfying.

John will be in any minute now, so I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then return to my chair. As soon as I’m in it again, I hear John unlocking the front door. His tread on the stairs is quick and light (buoyant) and then he’s coming into the flat, already beaming.

“Hullo love!” John is always pleased to see me. How lovely to have some one smile at the sight of me.

I smile back at him, “Hello John.” He hangs his coat on the hook and comes to my chair at once. John bends and kisses me very very gently, which makes me smile. Generally I hate being treated as fragile, but I am undeniably fragile at the moment. It’s oddly liberating; I have little choice other than to allow John to be gentle with me. Then he sits on the arm of my chair and begins to stroke my hair. He’s more proactive with his caresses since our conversation the other day (lovely).

“How are you today, my lovely love?” he asks, smiling down into my face. I roll my eyes and give him the thumbs up. He laughs. “May I borrow your stethoscope?” he asks.

“Of course.” I take it out of my dressing gown pocket and hand it to him, then shrug my dressing gown off my shoulders. John lifts my t shirt in the back, and I lean forward to accommodate him, wincing a little when the twinge of protest from my ribs is sharper than I expected. I played too long; I’ll be feeling it for the rest of the night, I expect. John’s noticed the wince. He puts one warm hand on my shoulder for a moment. It’s nice. Fortifying. I sigh (it hurts). John lifts my shirt again, and I can sense him raise the chestpiece behind me.

“This’ll be cold,” we say in unison, and John laughs.

Then he presses the chestpiece to the right side of my back (yes, it’s cold) and says, “Deep breath for me, love.” I draw a long one and let it out slowly (it hurts, but it doesn’t make my eyes water)(been practising)(practising breathing! Good god!). “Very good,” he says. “Getting better.”

“I’m a quick study,” I say, and he laughs again. He slides the chestpiece over to the left side of my back, and I repeat my impressive inhale and exhale. John does not remark. He keeps the chestpiece pressed against me, listening. Nominally John is checking for any sign of infection in my lungs, but he certainly doesn’t need to do that every day. He probably doesn’t need to do it at all, really. If there were any congestion, I’d be able to feel it. The stethoscope is a vehicle for his affection.

Need is a funny concept, though. Likely I will not sustain further damage to my health, if John does not check my lungs for infection daily (sometimes twice a day)(he likes to listen at night as well, just before I go to sleep). But perhaps John needs to look after me in the way that I need to touch him. Perhaps he needs it to soothe and to steady himself.

We cannot shed the dark parts of ourselves (nor would either of us choose to, I think) when they grow cumbersome. Neither of us (though we are driven to try) can smooth and straighten and brighten the murky, crooked world. But we can look after each other. I draw another long breath, longer than the first two. And John rests his hand on my shoulder again (lovely), “Good, love,” he says. “Very good.”


	266. Chapter 266

"Oh hullo! You're looking so much better!"  
"Am I?"  
"Yeah, less like you've been trodden on."  
"My. Damned by faint praise."  
"Sorry! I mean you're just easier to look at when you're not all bashed up like that."  
"Don't try to give compliments, Molly. It's really not your area."  
"Sorry! I only meant-"  
"Perhaps you'd best stop trying to explain. I'm glad to hear my face is back in your comfort zone. Let's just leave it there."  
"Sorry. Erm. John told me you'd got bruised ribs?"  
"Did he now? Thoughtful of him to spread the word."  
"Right, erm. How is that? Those? How are your, erm. Ribs?"  
"I tied my own shoelaces today. Progress."  
"Right. Sorry."  
"Sorry? Why sorry? I was rather pleased myself."  
"Are you here for a case? John said you weren't taking-"  
"Then you know I'm not here for a case, don't you? John's got you so terribly well-informed."  
"Sorry."  
"So you've said. I'm just, er, looking for company."  
"You've missed me?"  
"Don't get carried away."  
"Oooh, bless. You've come to pay your dearest friend a visit? Been too long, then? Nearly two weeks since you saw me last."  
"Contain yourself, Molly. I'm bored out of my skull."  
"Well that's not new."  
"No, certainly not, but I'm trying not to be all, well, me about it. It's hard on John."  
"I didn't know you had the option to not be all you about it."  
"Well as it happens, being in pain constantly is exhausting. Little energy remains for restiveness."  
"Oh. That's convenient, I suppose."  
"Isn't it just."  
"Sorry. That came out- Sorry."  
"You're on sparkling form today, Molly."  
"Sorry."  
"Oh relax. You're fine. I'm only teasing. Now you look like you're the one who's been trodden on. Sorry Molly."  
"Ha, knew that would work."  
"Hmph. I could tell you were shamming all along."  
"Right, yeah."  
"I'm a detective, Molly. I know when people are being duplicitous with me."  
"Yeah, yeah, 'course you do. Erm. Anyway, if you like I can pop in and see you. Try and entertain you."  
"How ambitious."  
"That's me. All brimming with ambition."  
"Well John's working Saturday. Want to come round then?"  
"Yeah, Saturday's perfect. John's awful. Glad I'll be missing him."  
"Well you've said you want to entertain me, so come when I'm least likely to be entertained."  
"Ooh, actually I'm meant to see Neal on Saturday."  
"Bring him along; it doesn't matter."  
"Bring him?"  
"Yes, bring him. Didn't you hear me?"  
"Bring Neal to your flat?"  
"Yes, Molly. Bring Neal to my flat."  
"What, just bring him right in? To sit in one of your chairs and maybe even use one of your mugs?"  
"Very funny, Molly."  
"What will you do, if he touches your violin?"  
"Shoot him, of course."  
"Oh, all right then. I'll bring him. Will you be nice to him?"  
"Oh Molly, I'm always nice."

...

Neal is here.  
-SH

 

At Bart's?

 

In the flat.  
-SH

 

What?! How'd you make that happen?

 

Ingenuity.  
-SH

 

Can you keep him there until I get back?

 

What for another four hours?  
-SH

 

With your ingenuity.

 

I'm afraid not. Molly is very suspicious by nature.  
-SH

 

What's he like so far?

 

Enthusiastic.  
-SH

 

Oh dear.

 

Could be worse.  
-SH

 

Well that's high praise. Now I don't know what to think.

 

Reserve your judgement until you have gathered data firsthand. I'm told I am not a reliable judge of other people's affability.  
-SH

 

Actually I think we've got pretty overlapping senses of affability, love. What are you lot up to?

 

Ha playing Cluedo.  
-SH

 

Are you serious?

 

Molly brought it. For a laugh.  
-SH

 

Does she know about your history?

 

She doesn't take your stories seriously, John. She knows you are prone to wanton exaggeration.  
-SH

 

You're not going to stab anything are you?

 

Don't be ridiculous.  
-SH

 

That is the least reassuring answer you could have given.

 

Haven't you got doctoring to do?  
-SH

 

So I have. See you in a bit.

 

And not a bit sooner.  
-SH

...

"Well?"  
"Well?"  
"Don't you have something to tell me?"  
"You're looking handsome today? But you'll want to get out of your shoes before you give me my hello kiss because your left sock is wet through. That can't be comfortable. It may be time to switch to boots, John. It's been very wet lately."  
"How do you know my left sock is wet through?"  
"There are traces of muddy rivulets running down from the throat of your shoe. You stepped in a deep puddle. The outside of the shoe's dried, but your sock hasn't had time to dry. Take them off. My foot is starting to sympathy-itch."  
"Right, but passing over my left sock-"  
"Your slippers are by the fire. Tell me what a good husband I am."  
"Yes, brilliant husband, exemplary husbandship, but-"  
"And I've been composing as well. Bit sore, but it’s worth it for you, John. Yes, yes, spent all morning composing. Made some lengthy strides, John. As is my wont."  
"Ha yes, you're quite the strider, but you're-"  
"Put the kettle on, will you? I'm chilled; I need a cup of tea. Might be coming down with something, actually. Feel my forehead."  
"Oh, you know you're not ill! Tell me about Neal, you prat!"  
"Hmm? Neal? What about him?"  
"Well what's he like?"  
"Enthusiastic."  
"Yes, you've said. What else?"  
"Mmm he's got brown hair."  
"Are you being infuriating on purpose?"  
"We call that flirtatious, don't we?"  
"Not in this case."  
"So you aren't enjoying it?"  
"Well. I'm enjoying your expression."  
"Thought so."  
"So you're not going to tell me anything about Neal?"  
"We'll see."  
"Is he nice to Molly?"  
"Well anyone can be nice in an afternoon."  
"Who won at Cluedo?"  
"Ha. Please."


	267. Chapter 267

"Now don't give me that face."  
"I'm sorry it is not to your satisfaction, John, but it is the only face I've got. I fear we'll have to content ourselves with it."  
"You know the face I mean."  
"The one on the front of my head."  
"That oh-mean-John-is-so-mean-and-never-lets-me-do-what-I-like face."  
"Have I got a face like that?"  
"You know you have, and you know you're wearing it."  
"It pains me to differ with you, but I am afraid I must insist that you are imagining things. The only John I know is an angel from heaven and could never creditably be accused of behaving like an obstinate, obstructive, little tyrant."  
"Little?!"  
"Oh you misunderstand me, John. I said that such a thing could never be suggested."  
"I am not-"  
"Seven inches shorter than I am?"  
"Five inches shorter!"  
"Please."  
"Not my fault I'm married to a giant."  
"Mmm that's debatable."  
"Well I married you on purpose-"  
"And I'm not a giant."  
"Don't think I don't know a deflection when I hear one, love."  
"Deflection? Perish the thought! If my John wishes to discuss something, then we must discuss it."  
"You're going the right way for a night in, you know."  
"Dear me, that sounds like tyrant talk. Who could have said such a thing? Not my John."  
"Fine. We'll go. We'll give them five minutes on the scene, and then we're coming home. Nothing stupid. No tricks."  
"I thought you liked stupid."  
"Sherlock..."  
"Fine, fine. No tricks."  
"And it's chilly out, so you've got to be a bit more wrapped up than usual. You can wear this."  
"I am not going to wear that to a crime scene, John."  
"Then you are not going to a crime scene, Sherlock."  
"Tyrant."  
"What's so horrible about it anyway?"  
"It's a jumper."  
"So? It's nice."  
"I can't wear that with a suit."  
"Well you don't have to wear a suit. Just put it on over your shirt and leave the jacket."  
"Is that a serious suggestion?"  
"Sherlock, it's a nice, warm, plain, black jumper. It is cold and foggy out, and if you're not wrapped up, you're going to be really uncomfortable, and you might have an asthma attack. And I don't think I have to tell you how unpleasant that would be. So put the stupid jumper on, and keep your coat buttoned, if it's so embarrassing. You're so vain!"  
"I'm not vain; I'm exacting. Part of being a good detective."  
"Refusing to wear a jumper when it's cold is part of being a good detective?"  
"Fine, give me the stupid thing! Mean John wins."  
"Mean John always wins."  
"Yes, I'm starting to learn that."  
"Took you long enough."  
"Well. I'm an idiot genius."

...

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it John? I didn't burst into flames, did I?"  
"No, despite the jumper, you did not burst into flames."  
"Hmph, it was a near miss."  
"Was it?"  
"I've been told that cold air doesn't cause illness, John."  
"It doesn't cause viral infections, but it can cause wheezing and shivering, both of which are very-"  
"All right, all right, thank you. Yes, wheezing, shivering, and spontaneous combustion narrowly averted thanks to the foresight of Mean John."  
"Mean John saves the day again!"  
"We should have Jacob Sowersby do a comic about Mean John and his teammates Stubborn John and Bossy John."  
"And people would read it. But Jacob doesn't do comics. He just. Likes them."  
"Oh. Hmm. I thought he made comics as well."  
"Nope."  
"Anyway. I'm so glad we're taking cases again, I can't tell you."  
"That was only one-"  
"Oh come on, John. It was a nice little case, not too taxing. And you've missed it, too. Admit you enjoyed yourself."  
"Yes, yes, clever boots, I had a gay old time, but that's-"  
" Now there's a comic. Mean John, Clever Boots, and the Gay Old Time."  
"I would definitely read that one."  
"So would I."  
"Right then, clever boots. Let's get you warmed up."  
"Oooh, what've you got in mind?"  
"Just a hot shower, before you get any clever ideas.”  
“I can’t help my clever ideas, John. I’m a clever boots.”  
“Well I was just talking about a hot shower. Nothing strenuous.”  
“Mmm. Pity.”  
“We’re working our way back to strenuous. Let’s not over-excite ourselves.”  
“I always over-excite myself.”  
“Well tonight you’re going to take it easy. Mean John says so.”  
“What about tomorrow night?”  
“Mean John says he’ll think about it.”  
“For being mean, Mean John is a tremendous molly-coddler.”  
“It’s his way. Mean John, the molly-coddler. Mean John molly-coddles Clever Boots, and they have a gay old time.”  
“I’ve definitely already read that one.”


	268. Chapter 268

Wake with an ache in my side and John tucked against me, his head on my pillow, his hand on my hip. It’s not his usual way, especially since my most recent injury. Generally I’m the one who clings to him. He must have had a nightmare, though he seems peaceful enough now. Perhaps he only took cold. That salty, yeasty, buttery, bread dough smell of John’s sleep-warm skin is thick in the air between his face and mine. Draw several long, steady, breaths until I can taste his smell in my mouth (picking up that hint of evergreen now)(lovely)(I can always find it, if I wait long enough). The answering twinges in my ribs are almost a pleasure because of the satisfaction I derive from ignoring them. A bit of pain can be invigorating sometimes. Can be clarifying.

I put a hand in John’s hair and stroke his scalp. He doesn’t enjoy this the way that I do, but I do like to stroke his hair. I like the way it’s softer than it looks, and I like for the smell of it to cling to my fingers. But he’s soaking into my t shirt as well. I’ll keep it on all day, and I’ll be able to take little wisps of this John cloud with me wherever I go. I wonder if other people can ever smell him on me. I hope so. I love anything that marks me out as belonging to John. I even rather liked wearing his jumper the other day, though I look about nineteen whenever I wear a jumper. John cuts a much more impressive figure in one. I don’t know how he manages it. Witchcraft I suppose.  
Wrap one arm round John and kiss the top of his head. Perhaps his smell will linger on my lips for a bit, if I keep my mouth against his hair until he wakes. Under my arm, John’s rib cage seems to expand for an impossibly long time on his inhale. Though time is a bit funny in this fuzzy pre-morning greyness. Nothing to mark it but John’s breath and his heartbeat, which I fancy I can feel through his pyjama top with the hand I have resting on his chest. I wish I had my stethoscope in reach. Slide my hand under his shirt, so that I can feel his heartbeat against my skin. My metronome.

Take the opportunity to brush my fingers over the starburst scar on his shoulder. I never, ever do that when he is awake. Never pay it any notice at all, when he is awake. The scar itself doesn’t exactly fascinate me, but the fact of it seems so laden with meaning. It almost makes me believe in fate. I can’t help but feel some reverence for it. That piece of ruin that dropped John into my lap (there have been a few of those). Must never say that to him. I can’t even imagine what his answer would be. I don’t want him to know that I know that scar by heart. He may know anyway. I’ll never ask.

I’m trying to match my own breaths to his long ones. My breathing practise. It is rather brilliant, actually. Inhaling John. It aches, but I love it anyway. Is that what he meant? Breathing can be brilliant? Must remember to ask him provided I can find the words.  
I want to pervade him the way he’s pervading me, so I find his left hand and squeeze it (like the tap of a conductor’s baton), then slide my fingers down to his wrist and begin to press the notes of his piece against his skin. Lightly. I don’t want to wake him. Though I do want him to know me in his sleep. I hope to play myself into his dreams. To sweeten his dreams (if they’ve been dark).

Does he know I’d play him awake on purpose when he had nightmares? Back before I died. I’d hear him cry out or the creaking of the bedsprings when he shuddered and shifted in his sleep. I couldn’t let that stand. I’d get out of bed myself to put it right sometimes. My inverse of a lullaby. I’ll tell him some time. Or perhaps I shouldn’t. Or perhaps he knows. I think he must, but I’m not sure if he knows he knows. It’s difficult to tell sometimes what John knows he knows and what he only knows.


	269. Chapter 269

"What are you grinning about, witch?"  
"Oh nothing."  
"I wonder if you're aware that I've been brushing up on my witch interrogation methods."  
"I wasn't."  
"Well now you are. Out with it."  
"Ha, I was only thinking that you must be feeling more yourself."  
"I am, actually. How did you divine that, witch?"  
"Witchcraft."  
"I suppose you're emboldened by the fact that I'm not quite up to administering a pressing at the moment, but I'll have you know that I'm keeping careful account of your wickedness for when I have recovered my full strength."  
"Are you now?"  
"I am."  
"My."  
"And your time to pay the piper is nearly at hand, witch."  
"That's a very sobering thought, love."  
"Indeed. You want to bear that in mind in future. Let it be a guide for your conduct."  
"I certainly will."  
"Mind that you do. You were telling me by what art you know I must be feeling more myself."  
"Ha, right. I can tell by the way you've been prancing about when you pace lately."  
"Prancing?!"  
"Yes, love. Sorry. Definitely in the prancing family, at least. Mmm, I suppose we might call it sweeping, if we're feeling flexible."  
"Worse and worse."  
"Well you've got your dressing gown streaming out behind you like that. It billows every time you turn. Very imposing."  
"It helps me to think."  
"The billowing?"  
"Yes. You should try it some time. May help you to come by a little clarity."  
"I'm afraid I might be beyond help, love."  
"I'm not ready to give up on you, John. Try it. Your dressing gown is over your chair."  
"Oh all right then."  
"Mmm, you're looking cleverer already, witch."  
"I've got my dressing gown on over all my clothes, and you think I look cleverer? You must be a great believer in the dressing gown."  
"Well. Your expression is very knowing."  
"Ah. That must be it."  
"Must be."

...

The light is out in the microwave  
-SH 

 

So?

 

So my jammy dodgers are afraid of the dark.  
-SH 

 

Well you shouldn't be microwaving them anyway. 

 

I should eat them cold, like a heathen?  
-SH 

 

They go all melty otherwise!

 

I know. I like them melty.  
-SH 

 

Pervert. 

 

Perhaps, but that is primarily to your advantage.  
-SH 

 

True. 

 

Right, deflection over, John. The light is out in the microwave.  
-SH 

 

And in your imagination, I've got microwave light fixing powers, I suppose. 

 

Is that your way of declaring your intent to be negligent?  
-SH 

 

Use the oven. 

 

It's dark in the oven as well. Anyway it hardly seems worth it.  
-SH 

 

Then I suppose you don't want hot jammy dodgers all that badly. 

 

I almost never want anything badly enough to use the oven.  
-SH 

 

You make toast in the oven. 

 

I would do anything for toast.  
-SH 

 

As well you should.

...

“What are you giggling at over there, love?”  
“Nothing. I’m not.”  
“Is it to do with what you’re writing?”  
“Shopping list.”  
“Shopping list?”  
“Yes. Have we got any tomatoes?”  
“Clearly you’re lying so badly because you want me to have a look. Happy to oblige, love. I’ll have that, thanks.”  
“Wait, John, don’t!”  
“Oh my god. Sherlock, this is. Inventive.”  
“I didn’t mean for you to see it all at once.”  
“Well, yes. It’s. Quite an array. You are a clever boots, aren’t you? And the illustrations-”  
“Diagrams.”  
“Well, they’re, er, flattering.”  
“They are not to scale.”  
“Ha, enlarged to show detail, eh? What’s this you’ve written under number seven? ‘Excellent for-?’”  
“Can’t you read my writing?”  
“No, not the last bit.”  
“Erm, ‘hair-pulling.’”  
“Right. Well, it would be.”  
“I was only trying to think of what might be unstrenuous enough to meet with the approval of Mean John, and it sort of. Blossomed.”  
“Right, it got away from you. Like eating crisps. What are the square things?”  
“Cushions. There would be a legend to explain all that, if you’d have let me finish.”  
“Clearly I didn’t know what I was getting into. Well. I’ll just leave you to it, shall I? Let you finish your work in peace.”  
“Well. I could put it down for a bit.”  
“Could you? I did quite like the look of number four.”  
“Ah, I’d marked that out as a potential favourite.”  
“Is that what the star means?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, number four, then. Let’s give it a go. Only no note-taking, if you don’t mind. I know you’re a scientist, but there are limits.”  
“Don’t be silly, John. Why should I take notes, when I can just review the footage?”

...

“Mmm, you were joking, right love?”  
“Hmm?”  
“About the footage?”  
“The footage?”  
“You said you’d just review the footage. That was a joke, right?”  
“...Yes.”  
“Sherlock!”  
“Ha, relax John. Of course I was joking. I’m only winding you up a bit.”  
“Bad man.”  
“Mmmm, matched set, John.”


	270. Chapter 270

“Could you keep it down?”  
“What? What are you muttering about?”  
“Do you have to make that sound so loudly?”  
“What sound, John? What are you on about?”  
“That sound you just made.”  
“Yawning, John? It’s a physiological response to a want of oxygen. I don’t do it to entertain myself.”  
“Well do you have to do it so loudly?”  
“That is remarkably stodgy, even for you, John. Even for Mean John. Even for Bossy John and Stubborn John. The whole gang.”  
“Well honestly when you yawn, erm, you look and sound a bit like you’re, erm. In the throes.”  
“The throes, John?”  
“You know what I mean, you tosser.”  
“Interesting choice of words.”  
“Oh shut up. Just try to keep it down, all right?”  
“No, no I don’t think I agree to that. My yawns need to be unconstrained, John. Abandoned, if you will.”  
“There’s a shocker for you.”  
“I’ll never understand why you ask questions to which you already know the answer, John. Anyway, if it’s any consolation, you’re the only person around with any experience in the subject you’re referring to.”  
“I don’t know that there’s enough variation-you know what? Never mind. Ignore me. Yawn as obscenely as you like.”  
“Mmmm, I intend to.”  
“You’re going to be really over the top with it from now on, just to annoy me, aren’t you?”  
“Mmm, does that sound like me, John?”  
“Yeah, it sounds exactly like you, actually.”  
“It does, doesn’t it? Well, I suggest that you accustom yourself to the idea and learn to enjoy it. Shouldn’t take long. You enjoy it avidly in other contexts.”  
“True.”  
“I’m quite optimistic, John. But if you like, I’ll see what I can do to help you along towards enjoying my obscene and abandoned yawning.”  
“Generous love, but unnecessary.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Very.”  
“Well let me know if you change your mind, John. I’m quite at your disposal. Anything for you, John. Just say the word.”

...

"John!"  
"Sherlock!"  
"Right, as much as I enjoy the sight of your tongue, I'm going to have to ask you to not ever do that again so long as we both shall live."  
"Erm, sorry what am I swearing against?"  
"Doing that to your mug."  
"What licking it?"  
"Yes, obviously."  
"Why, exactly?"  
"Because your husband beseeches you, and you're just so obliging."  
"I suppose that's as good a reason as any."  
"Better than most."  
"Ha right. Better than most. So it is. Erm, what is it that bothers you about me licking my mug?"  
"Everything."  
"I see. There was a drip, you know. I splashed. I could have got coffee on my hand."  
"Be more careful in future."  
"I will do my best, love. Maybe you could do something for me?"  
"Perhaps."  
"Just write up a quick list of the things I'm allowed to lick. Start with the most obvious, say the back of my own teeth, and work your way up to the more obscure, like oh your earlobes."  
"That's not obscure."  
"Well not physically."  
"No, no, I don't think I like this plan at all. Firstly, you have my unrestricted permission to lick any bit of me your tongue can reach. If you would like to lick any objects, I will be accepting typed proposals between the hours of noon and five, Monday through Wednesday, bank holidays excepted, of course. You should have your answer within six to ten weeks. For complete submission guidelines, please write to head office. You should have your answer within six to ten weeks."  
"May I have provisional permission to lick spoons and forks?"  
"Mmmm I suppose so."  
"Magnanimous to a fault, you are."  
"That's what they tell me."


	271. Chapter 271

Sherlock was not in one of his usual spots when I got in. Not at the window with his violin, heralding my arrival. Not sat in his chair, smirking into a glass of wine. Not muttering over his microscope in the kitchen. Not even stretched out on the sofa, contemplating the ceiling. The flat was silent, and the air stale and cool, as if it had not been disturbed by breath in some time. Still his coat was hung up on the hook by the door and there was a half-drunk cup of tea sitting cold on the mantel.

He's such a force that wherever he goes, the world seems to shift into orbit around him. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear. Perhaps, though, just a bit of that theatre and liveliness are for my benefit. He would know better than anyone how grey and loud and thought-drowning the silence can be. Drove me right out of the flat when I lost him. It still seems a bit unnatural for the flat to be empty of him. Like an ocean without any fish.

I didn't have to look long or far for him. He was asleep on the bed, mostly naked but with one pyjama trouser leg on. He does that sometimes, if he’s stayed up for more than twenty-four hours at a time. I was fairly impressed he’d actually made it to the bed. I got undressed and laid down next to him. Generally he sleeps in the foetal position, but it’d been uncomfortable for him after his injury. He was stretched out on his back with his arms curled around his head. He had gooseflesh across his ribcage. It was a bit chilly in the room, and he was lying on top of the bedding. I considered wrapping my end of the blankets over him but, quite in opposition to his usual way, he was lying completely on his side of the bed. Seemed like an invitation for a bit of close contact.

I settled myself carefully against his side and rested my head on his shoulder. Sherlock drew a long breath and let it out in one of those dragonish, evil villain chuckles of his.

“Are your dreams tickling you, my lovely?” I whispered, in case he was only laughing in his sleep. He does that sometimes. I’d eat his coat, if I could find out what about.

Sherlock laughed his wicked laugh again, turned toward me onto his (uninjured) side, and kissed me before answering, “I thought you were a dream, John. When you came in. Until you touched me. Only the flesh and blood John Watson would handle me as if he were trying to have a cuddle with an egg without breaking it.”

“Am I rough with you in your dreams, love?”

“Mmm, deliciously so, John.”

“Like that, do you?”

“Mmm, don’t try on stupid, John. It’s not a pretty colour on you.”

“Genius idiot, remember?”

Sherlock pulled me to him and laid my head against his chest before he answered, “Are you saying there are lessons needing learning, John? I suppose I’ll have to teach by example. As is my way.”

I laughed. “Are you threatening me with rough treatment, love?”

“It may be the only way to get through to you. Deliciously rough, mind.”

“This is your idea of deliciously rough, is it?” I asked, grinning and patting his hip. “If so, I think I like my chances of learning nothing at all.”

Sherlock laughed, “I’ve just waked up, John. In this state, I can be either rough or delicious, but I’m afraid I can’t quite manage both.”

“Well I’m glad you’ve plumped for delicious.”

“Mmmm indeed,” Sherlock said, pausing a moment to nose at my hair, “Plenty of time for the cocktail a bit later. Anyway it’s terribly difficult to be severe with you when you come in and curl up next to me all smelling of ozone and fir cones and wool like a Christmas card.”

“That sounds like a very expensive Christmas card.”

“Shut up, John. You’re the one with the picturesque smell. Witchcraft, I suppose. It’s indecent. It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s rude.”

“Oh, you’re one for talking, Mr Cheekbones.”

Sherlock grinned and ran his fingers over his cheek (bit gingerly but he might well have cut himself, mightn’t he?), “I have got exemplary zygoma, haven’t I?”

“Every bit of you’s exemplary, you tosser. And by the way there, that’s ridiculous, too. Exemplary zygoma. Why’ve you got to say it like that?”

“Exemplary vocabulary as well, John. Don’t ask me to hide my light under a bushel basket. Besides it’s yet another area in which I lead by example.”

“So I need vocabulary lessons as well as lessons in delicious roughness?”

“I’m afraid so, John. But here, I’ll tell you what. As a special treat, you’ll have both at once. How’s that?”

“Marvelous. Fantastic. Sensational. Superb. Spectacular. Stunning. Phenomenal. Fabulous. Glorious. Smashing. Ace. Peachy keen. Positively magnifi-”

Sherlock put his hand over my mouth, “Yes, all right, John. You know quite a lot of ways to tell me how stupendous I am.”

I bit him rather hard, and he withdrew his hand very quickly, though not very far (popped his affected finger into his mouth). “Does that count as delicious roughness, love?” I asked, grinning.

“All right, I concede,” Sherlock said, taking his finger out of his mouth. “You’re the ideal John Watson just as you are.”

“Oh no, does that mean I miss out on the cocktail?”

“Absolutely not, John! And frankly, I’m surprised to hear you suggest such a thing.”


	272. Chapter 272

Sick of the Back of Your Head, John Hamish Watson  
You've had your face attached to your bloody laptop for two hours now, and I'm getting a bit fed up. Perhaps the irritating chirp of the email notification that your blog has successfully updated will succeed in getting your attention where I--YOUR HUSBAND--have failed. I grant you the back of your head does have its advantages, as it's not got your deceitful mouth in it. While we're on the subject of your deceitful mouth, we are completely and totally out of marmalade, despite your assurances to the contrary, and I'll not eat dry toast like some sort of barbarian! I will be very interested to hear your ideas on the rectification of this exigency just as soon as you can squeeze that blood from the stone that is your brain!

Comments (35)

John Watson:  
My adoring husband, ladies and gentlemen. Try not to choke to death on your envy. Bit bored are we, Sherlock?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Wasting away of neglect, more like. And I don't care for your sardonic tone. 

John Watson:  
You are a model of forbearance. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You've still not looked round. 

John Watson:  
No, and I'm not going to until you've said something really really nice about me. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Don't be ridiculous, John. 

John Watson:  
I may never look round again. It's up to you. Just think, if I do ever look round again, I might go out to the shops for the all-important marmalade. I might even bring you along, since I hear tell that you secretly enjoy it. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
John, I'm hungry. My toast is dry. 

John Watson:  
Best crack on then. 

John Watson:  
I'm waiting. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I'm thinking. 

John Watson:  
Well, don't strain yourself. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Weak with hunger. 

John Watson:  
Off you go then. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You've got a nice haircut. 

John Watson:  
I'm afraid that doesn't merit one "really" let alone two. Try again. 

John Watson:  
Ha, well that was certainly complimentary, though not exactly nice. But I meant right here. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You've got excellent taste in shoes. 

John Watson:  
Oh dear, it seems you're a bit fuzzy on the spirit of the exercise. All right, I'll help you along. If I wanted say something really really nice about you, I might say that you're fiery and passionate. Like a poet. Or an artist. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
That's not nice at all. That's awful. 

John Watson:  
Oh excuse me. I beg your pardon. No offense intended. (See I'm feeling really generous, as I'm giving free lessons in apologies as well as compliments). Let me try my hand again. You're dashing and romantic like a storybook hero. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Enough, John. You're doing it on purpose. I'm deleting all of this. 

John Watson:  
Gosh I could really fancy some marmalade right now. Is there any in?

Sherlock Holmes:  
It's not fair that you're being horrible and expecting me to be nice in response. 

John Watson:  
Yeah, imagine a man who could be nice in response to some one being horrible to him. What might we say about such a man? We could probably think of something really, really nice to say about him, if we put our minds to it. Well not me. I've got a stone for a brain, after all. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Sorry, John.

Sherlock Holmes:  
You're an excellent shot; you're a brilliant doctor; you're a very good detective, and you're far, far, far too patient for your own good. 

John Watson:  
Thanks.

Sherlock Holmes:  
How is it that we've made it this far without any input from the peanut gallery? 

John Watson:  
Well it's 11 in the morning on a Thursday, so I reckon most of the peanut gallery is busy. Which is lucky. I'm deleting this. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I'm really sorry, John. 

John Watson:  
I'm sorry, too. I've been an arse. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Don't mention it. 

John Watson:  
Those were really nice compliments by the way. You don't need lessons. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
This is stupid. Will you just come over here? Please?

...

"I'm sorry."  
"No, you didn't do anything wrong. It was my fault, John."  
"Well. That sort of thing is different when it's just the two of us, but I was trying to embarrass you because I was annoyed, and that's not on. I'm sorry."  
"It's my fault, John. I started it."  
"Well. Neither of us were particularly nice. Kiss and make up, then?"  
"Yes, please."  
"Mmm, that's much better, isn't it, love?"  
"Yes, it is John."  
"Shall we do a bit from the tin before we go and get the marmalade?"  
"That's a brilliant idea, John. I'll go and get it."

...

Hullo love,   
You go a bit high-pitched with decisive application of Number Four. I hope that sounds like a compliment. It’s meant to be a compliment.   
Yours,   
John

…

“How could I possibly think that uncomplimentary?”  
“You’re blushing.”  
“No, I’m not!”  
“You really are. I think you must be fondly recollecting.”  
“Mmm, that I concede.”

…

John,   
I hid your scarf last night, so I could wear it while you’re out of the flat today. It had to be done. It smells of your throat.   
S

…

“Does my throat smell different from the rest of me?”  
“All the different bits of you have got slightly different smells, John.”  
“That sounds a bit overwhelming.”  
“Sometimes it is. I wasn’t expecting you to take my scarf instead.”  
“You didn’t mind.”  
“It was excellent.”  
“Perhaps you’ll lend it to me again when we go to get the marmalade?”  
“Perhaps I will.”


	273. Chapter 273

"Ooof! My darling, my beloved, star of my sky, light of my life, apple of my eye, what do you think you're doing? Get off! You're cutting off circulation to my lower extremities."  
"Well turn your hips. What have you gone all curled up for?"  
"I've got to protect my vital organs."  
"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not going to disembowel you."  
"You look really wild and toothy at the moment."  
"Your hipbone is pressing into my bladder."  
"Move, then! Get off!"  
"I'm illustrating a point. And frankly, I'm stunned you haven't got there yet."  
"Clearly not stunned into silence."  
"That would take some sort of nuclear event, I'm afraid. Want to have a guess what I'm showing you?"  
"If you're showing me, it should be clear, shouldn't it?"  
"It should be, but you're refusing to devote your mind to it. I can see your stubborn thoughts ticking across your forehead. You want me to get up first, but fair warning, John, I'm not going to until you have a guess."  
"Ouch! You've just said you wouldn't bite me, not two minutes ago, you savage!"  
"I did not, and I would never. What I said was that I wasn't going to disembowel you."  
"So you're only going to tear my throat out instead. That's not loads better."  
"Mmm, well I hadn't planned on it, but if I do get a bit carried away, you'll just borrow my scarf again, won't you?"  
"Ha, you've a talent for making amends, love."  
"Loads of practise, John. Now. Have a guess."  
"Hmm. Let's think. You are trying to imply that you're a werewolf, and now I'm a werewolf as well."  
"Of course not. Though obviously, if I were a werewolf, the first thing I'd do would be to bite you."  
"Right, obviously."  
"Have another guess."  
"Oh just tell me, you smug thing."  
"Fine, lazy blogger. I am vaunting my renewed physical vigour and increased range of motion. Are you impressed with me?"  
"Wildly. And speaking of impressions, I suppose this is the first installment of those collected pressings you promised me?"  
"Yes, witch and you've just earned yourself another with your punning."  
"Then my devious plan is working."

...

“You did it on purpose!”  
“Oh yeah, of course I did it on purpose. I was just up there thinking to myself, ‘well this is going well, but being jolted off the bed suddenly will really move things along.’”  
“Not the falling off the bed bit, the tickling bit! Obviously!”  
“Falling is such a gentle way to put that. And no, I did not tickle you on purpose. I didn’t know the backs of your knees are ticklish; I was only trying to adjust the angle.”  
“The backs of everyone’s knees are ticklish, John!”  
“Not mine.”  
“Yes, yours.”  
“No, not mine. And even if they were, I don’t think that being incidentally tickled for a moment would send me into enough of a panic to go flailing off the bed, taking my companion with me.”  
“I wasn’t expecting to be interfered with in that way at that moment.”  
“Right, well. Another miraculous disaster.”  
“Could you get off me, please! I think I’m lying on a shoe.”  
“You should put your shoes on the shoe tree.”  
“Oh, do shut up, John. Now is not the moment. I’m not sure what exactly, but clearly something has caused your sense of timing to go very badly wrong.”  
“I didn’t-never mind. Up we get, love. There now. All better? Have you recovered from the tickling and the familiarity of the shoe?”  
“I expect to.”  
“There’s my brave little soldier. Shall we, er, get back to it then?”  
“Yes, if you think you can control your more masochistic urges.”  
“Now where would be the fun in that?”  
“Right you are, John. Excuse me. Don’t know what I was thinking.”


	274. Chapter 274

Molly, how could you do this to me?

 

What?  
~Molly~

 

You brought Neal to the flat when you knew I wasn't in *and* how much I want to meet him. 

 

That was more than two weeks ago. You're only just getting round to complaining about it?  
~Molly~

 

I'm bored on the tube. 

 

You know who you sound like.  
~Molly~

 

Yep. 

 

I'm flattered you're texting me. Did Sherlock drop his mobile down a storm drain or something?  
~Molly~

 

We chat! I've only been a bit busy lately. Looking after Sherlock. 

 

Bit busy for the last few years, but it should ease up soon?  
~Molly~

 

Any day now. 

 

So how did you lot get on? Did he behave himself?

 

Are you asking me if my boyfriend behaved himself at your house? Like he might have widdled on the floor or chewed the sofa?  
~Molly~

 

Nah, I'm asking if my husband widdled on the floor or chewed the sofa. I understand you chanced a game of Cluedo.

 

You're not going to get me to believe that stabbing thing, John.  
~Molly~

 

Well, it happened. Also once he threw a Scrabble board into the fire. Oh & he chucked that little Boggle box thingy out the window. 

 

You know. The shaky rattly box thing with all the cubey letter bits. 

 

Board games get him a bit heated. Especially when he loses. 

 

You must be a board game prodigy because he routed us with unsettling glee.  
~Molly~

 

I am, actually, only I hardly ever get to enjoy it. 

 

Next time Monopoly. That's my game. I will make you all cry.  
~Molly~

 

Yeah, you want to be careful with that. He might just vent his spleen by pushing you down the stairs. 

 

I'm texting Sherlock as well now. He says if you try to bring Monopoly into our flat at all, you'll be pushed down the stairs.

 

Tell him his well wishes are returned with interest! Don't forget the exclamation mark.  
~Molly~

 

Ha, he rung me with his answer so that I'd know just what kind of scoffy sigh to text you. It was a bit like *haaaaughhhhhhff* but I can't really do him justice. 

 

Few can. It’s really tricky to transliterate all his stroppy noises.  
~Molly~

 

Yes, his lexicon is much more impressive than ours. Even when it’s nonverbal.

...

“Hullo lovely!”  
“Hello John...Mmm. Well done with the hello kiss window.”  
"Ha, thanks. I've got a present for you."  
"Have you?"  
"I have."  
"Do you intend to give it to me?"  
"Ha, yes."  
"Well?"  
"Can you guess what it is?"  
"Deduce what it is, you mean? I expect so. Give me a clue."  
"I thought I couldn't give a clue."  
"Is that one of the as yet unstated rules to this little game? You're quite mysterious today, John. And don't you just look thrilled about it. Your ears are pink. Very charming smugness. I'm enjoying it tremendously."  
"Yeah, you like me mysterious. And you told me once that I couldn't give a good clue."  
"Did I?"  
"Yes."  
"I don't remember that."  
"It was when you were dead."  
"Oh right. Well. Things have changed. You've been under my clue-giving tutelage for longer. Give me a clue."  
"Mmm, all right. Let me think a moment. Ah, it was recently the subject of an argument."  
"That doesn't much narrow the field."  
"Well we don't really argue much."  
"Sorry, have we met? I'm Sherlock Holmes. You look very like my husband, John Watson. So much so that I was under the impression that I was addressing him. Do you know where he's got to, by chance?"  
"Ha right well yeah, we have fluffy little nothing arguments-"  
"Constantly."  
"Yes constantly. But we don't have real proper rows unless it's something really important."  
"Oh I suppose not."  
"I am occasionally correct, you know."  
"Mmm, we can probably allow that. So was it a real, proper row or a fluffy, little nonsense argument? I don't think we've had any of the former in ages."  
"So then what's more likely?"  
"Yes, all right, John. Don't patronise. Erm, have you got it on your person right now?"  
"Yes, but the thing itself is only a bit of it. The other bit is what I'm going to do with it."  
"Well well, that does sound promising. Too bad it's only the light bulb for the microwave."  
"How'd you work that out already from what I said?"  
"You gave me a clue, didn't you? I eliminated the impossible."  
"Well, I suppose I look a bit stupid being surprised every time you remind me you're brilliant."  
"Mmm, I don't mind. It's one of the few really, really, really obvious things that bear repetition."  
"Generous of you, lovely."  
"Yes, one of my finer virtues. Thank you for the gift, John. Very thoughtful."  
"I took pity on your jammy dodgers."  
“Yes, my John. Your soft-heartedness is one of your finer virtues.”


	275. Chapter 275

How do you politely tell some one that they're making an intolerable noise?  
-SH

You don't.

 

There's no way at all?  
-SH

 

Well, it depends, but generally no, there's no way.

 

And if it turns out you’re cryptically alluding to me, I will shake you until your teeth rattle. I'm nowhere near you.

 

At least I think not. I better not be, since I'm in my office.

 

Of course not. I've never had difficulty telling you when you're annoying me.  
-SH

 

No, you haven't.

 

Molly's shoes are half a size too big. They flap when she walks.  
-SH

 

I'm thinking of tying her lab coat to her chair so she has to roll everywhere.  
-SH

 

Oh that would go over really well and be much less noisy. Well-done, you. Excellent scheme.

 

Sarcasm.  
-SH

 

Yes, Sherlock I know when I'm being sarcastic. You don't have to point it out to me.

 

Now she's humming, John. Help. I may spontaneously combust with annoyance.  
-SH

 

If it has a definite cause, it's not exactly spontaneous, is it?

 

Unsympathetic.  
-SH

 

I have loads of sympathy for Molly. I'm sure you're huffing and sighing and giving her sulky looks.

 

I shouldn’t be telling you this, as you’re quite manipulative enough already, but you might try asking her what she’s humming.

 

And have a really ridiculous guess like Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines.

 

And she’d be too self-conscious to continue. That’s rather brilliant, actually.  
-SH

 

I have my moments.

 

Yes, I do love your evil genius moments, John. They’re always coming on me suddenly. You know I like surprises.  
-SH

 

Ha, yes. I do know.

 

...

“Are those my pyjama bottoms?”  
“Mine are all in the wash. Do you have some stodgy objection to my wearing yours?”  
“No, you look sweet.”  
“Bite your tongue, John Watson.”  
“That's quite a bit of ankle showing.”  
“My legs are longer than yours.”  
“Ha yes, love. I noticed.”  
“Just now for the very first time, I suppose. And that's why you're remarking on it. Can’t think how it’s escaped you so long.”  
"Just dim, you know me. Your bum's a bit squashed, you know."  
"Very flattering interest in the welfare of my bum, John, but I assure you it is in excellent health and spirits."  
"Ah, good. Good to have a cheery bum. I just haven't seen you look so silly in quite a while. I would think you'd just wear your dressing gown."  
"Firstly I believe we have agreed on the unflappability of my personal dignity. Secondly, I did, but I got chilly."  
“Happens to the best of us from time to time. Hang on. Have I discovered the secret of getting you to put on trousers?”  
“I don’t constantly go round without trousers, John. You make me sound so ridiculous sometimes.”  
“Not outside the flat, no, but inside the flat, you’re just as likely to be without your trousers as you are to be, er, within them.”  
“And you have some sudden objections to me being trouserless?”  
“Not at all, lovely! I would only like it acknowledged as a fact.”  
“Consider it acknowledged, John. How does victory feel?”  
“Glorious. There ought to be trumpets blaring or something.”  
“I may have a suitable substitute. Pass me my bow? Thank you, John. How’s this?”  
“Ha, that’s brilliant! This sounds familiar. Do I know this one? What’s it called?”  
“Mmm, it’s See the Conqu’ring Hero Comes from Handel’s Judas Maccabaeus. I used to play it at Mycroft when he was over-pleased with himself about something pointless.”  
“He must have been so flattered.”  
“Not so much as you’d think. You’re a much more appreciative audience.”  
“How could I not be? Look at you.”  
"Mm, indeed."


	276. Chapter 276

I am awake, and I can smell toast. That’s a good thing and a bad thing. That is to say, the smell of toast is a mixed bag. Being awake is an unmitigated good. Sleep is dull, except that it generally leads to being tangled into John. That bit is perfect. Before I had John, my physiological need for sleep was infuriating. Now it’s only rather inconvenient at times. It’s annoying not to be constantly either doing something or inventing something to do. Now I’ve got John, I can be almost always looking at him, listening to him, talking to him, touching him, smelling him, or tasting him. Or plotting some innovative cocktail of those options. Even when we’re sleeping or very near to it (those violin dreams)(mmm).

John is my longest standing favourite activity. Learning him or charming him are at least an edge of nearly everything I do now. It makes him the subject of some extremely focussed attention at times, but he doesn’t mind. He quite enjoys it generally. When I’m in the mood to cringe under self-loathing, I wonder if he feels that the lavish attention he receives now makes up for my selfish negligence at the beginning of our relationship. The very beginning, way back before I died. He is so patient with me, so ready to be pleased. Too ready and too patient for his own good, a fact he never allows. Stubborn. One of his very charming flaws.

In light of that very charming flaw, the smell of toast is a bad sign (though I like toast)(I love toast). Not only has he preceded me out of bed (bad), he’s making breakfast (very bad). The toast means that he is planning not to come back to bed. I don’t want toast (at the moment), I want to be tucked against John’s chest with his hands in my hair and his sweat on my face (John browned some butter for a soup the the other day, and it smelled so exactly like the sweat on his chest that it quite startled me)(I hovered over him marvelling, until he spoiled it all by adding garlic and onions to the butter)(the soup was vexatiously delicious). John smells miraculously delectable sometimes (perhaps that’s why he wears all those layers of clothes? To muffle his smell? He realises it’s unfair to be so powerful?). He ought to be smearing his delectability all over me right now. Not in the kitchen fussing about with toast.

I rub my eyes and sit up to assess the situation. The sleeve of his dressing gown is poking through the shut doors of the wardrobe. He’ll be fully dressed then. Disappointing. Difficult not to take that as a sort of signal flag. Though perhaps it is actually a signal flag. John is subtle, and he knows I enjoy parsing ambiguity. Though on the other hand, he might find it a bit of a burden that any incidental gesture of his is likely to be imbued with meaning. Ergh. It’s too early to be so analytical. Probably. Yes, clock on the night table reads 6:42. Definitely too early for analysis (ha!).

Kick off the bedding, ooze out of bed, get my own dressing gown from the wardrobe (my best one that John chose for me), tuck away that disappointing sleeve of his, and go out to the kitchen. I rumple my hair a bit more on my way. It’s already very rumpled, but he likes me looking mussed (debauched, I suppose)(mmm). John turns from filling the kettle as I enter, and the tuts I’ve been preparing drown in a grin that I can’t bite back. It is impossible to meet John with anything like sincere disappointment (even when he has done something very wrong like getting out of bed). The sight of him is always a pleasure, and I have no hope of ever hiding that from him. Difficult to even pretend to pretend otherwise.

John’s answering grin broadens mine. “Good morning lovely,” he says.

“Good morning John,” my voice is a bit sleep rough. Good. That has certain effects on John. I do not clear my throat. “What pointless thing has got you out here so early when you ought to be back in the warm, wrapped round me?” Cock an eyebrow and brush my dressing gown aside to rest a hand on my hip (which is also cocked). Nothing underneath. Strategic.

John swallows (mm) then smirks and turns back to the kettle. Hit my mark, then. Good. He clears his throat and says, “Scientists are calling it breakfast.” Imitates my voice a bit. I love it when he does that. But this is a deflection (the joke as well as the breakfast)(to be fair to him, I am attempting to deflect him, and a deflection is an appropriate response to a deflection). I approach, wrap an arm round his waist, and rest my chin gently on his right shoulder. John pauses his in his kettle filling and inclines his head towards me, “Am I being seduced?” he asks conversationally. Excellent.

“Are you?” I say into his ear.

“Mmm you’re always seducing me at least a bit, aren’t you?” In answer, I bite his earlobe and then, on a whim, try and find the pinprick of the old piercing with my tongue. I think I’ve found it. Why’ve I never done this before (innovative cocktail)? No matter, I shall do much more of it in future. John sets the kettle down sharply and draws in a little breath that’s nearly a gasp. There we are, then. Triumph. (See the Conqu’ring Hero Comes!)(or soon shall)(ha)(pun)(glad I didn’t say that aloud) Laugh (poor form)(can’t help it) with my mouth still on his ear. He squirms ticklishly (mmm), turns, and kisses me. Then he says, “So smug,” with a fond smile, dabbing another kiss on me before he lets me reply.

“You misinterpret me, John. I’m only marvelling at my own good fortune.”

“Back to bed, then?” he says bumping his hips against mine.

“If you like, John.”

“Ha, don’t think this means I’m spending all day in bed like some layabout detective,” he says. “It’s not decent.”

“Mmm, if you think the bed indecent, John, I’ll gladly have you on the sofa.”

John laughs and slides his hands past my dressing gown to stroke my bare hips (mmmm), “All right then. Yeah.”


	277. Chapter 277

“Well love, you were right.”  
“Yes, of course I was. Obviously. What about? Something in particular?”  
“Mmm number seven is excellent for hair pulling.”  
“Ohhh, yes. Indeed. So it is. Though next time, you need not pull quite so much of it right out of my head.”  
“Whoops.”  
“Remorseless ruffian.”  
“You enjoy it.”  
“God yes.”

…

“What is this?”  
“Erm, sheets. But I suspect you’re looking for a different answer, as you obviously know that the sheets are sheets.”  
“These are not our sheets.”  
“Well, they weren’t until I bought them yesterday. Before that, they belonged to the shop.”  
“You’ve just bought these sheets?”  
“Yes, Sherlock. I’ve just bought the sheets, and now I’m putting them on the bed, and later we’ll sleep on them.”  
“Dark bedding is gauche.”  
“Dark bedding is gauche?”  
“Yes.”  
“Er, sorry what?”  
“Dark bedding is gauche.”  
“You know love, repeating it over and over doesn’t much help me to understand what you’re on about.”  
“I don’t like them. They look off.”  
“Well lucky for you, you spend most of your time in bed with your eyes shut. You’ll hardly notice them. Anyway this is your favourite colour. Dark blue, right?”  
“Not for sheets.”  
“But why?”  
“It’s gauche.”  
“Right, I suppose there’s no point in asking you to explain any further.”  
“Gauche means they’re in poor taste.”  
“Yes, Sherlock I know what the word means! I just don’t understand why you think dark blue sheets are in poor taste.”  
“They’re too...sexy.”  
“What?”  
“Don’t make me say it again.”  
“Have you just used the word sexy?”  
“I don’t like them.”  
“Well, I can’t return them. I’ve already put them on the bed.”  
“We’ll find a use for them.”  
“We won’t need to look long. We’ll use them as sheets on our bed, and that’s all. Right, Sherlock? Are we understood?”  
“‘Are we understood?’ Dear me! It’s Mean John, and he’s here to get firm about linens.”  
“Ha, Mean John is very, very firm about linens. Tell you what, love. When you get into bed, pull the duvet up to your chin and don’t peep under, and then the sheets won’t over-excite you.”  
“Very very firm, and yet completely loosey-goosey.”  
“Loosey goosey? First ‘sexy’ and then ‘loosey-goosey.’ Your lexicon is even more impressive than I’d ever imagined, love.”  
“Ergh never mind.”  
“I never will.”


	278. Chapter 278

"Marvelous!" John says from just behind me. "Incandescent!" We've just finished with a case. A really brilliant case. We'd gotten a cab to go home, but I'm so flush with triumphant energy that I could not sit still. Without my asking, John stopped the cab, and we got out to walk the rest of the way. He's so clever with me. We’ve been walking at top speed for several minutes now; the cold air is beginning to burn a bit on my inhalations (still recovering my full lung capacity)(so easy to ignore the pain now, it’s nearly no longer a pleasure). John is at half a trot just behind me and to my right (he tends to walk on my right, so he can easily touch me with his dominant hand, if he’s so inclined)(he often is so inclined).

I haven’t turned to look at him or acknowledged what he’s whispering to me beyond a slight shake or nod of the head and a few swallowed smiles since we got out of the cab. John knows me well enough not to let that deter him. Even without looking at him, I’m so absorbed in him. I can hear his quick, light step and his deep, steady breaths. He isn’t panting yet. My John and his stamina. Out of the tail of my eye, I see his tongue come out and swipe his bottom lip. He’ll speak again. I tuck my chin in and tilt my head just a bit toward his.

“You are gorgeous, you know,” he says. His voice is coming to me as a clear, low buzz that I can hear through the street noise. It’s like the ringing in my ears after I’ve played for a bit. “When you get like this. I always thought so. Can’t get my fill of you,” his breathing is ever so slightly unsteady now. Probably excitement, not exertion. Not yet. “You go brilliant all over,” he continues. “Like your mind isn’t just in your head; it’s in your skin and your hair and your eyes and your bones and your blood.” John sighs. His voice is getting rough now. My face must be flushing. The wind we’re walking against feels suddenly very cool on it. Tuck my chin in a bit further and swallow another smile. John chuckles.

He must be staring right at me instead of minding where he's going because he seems to catch his foot on a rough spot in the pavement, overbalances, and staggers a few steps. Quick as thought, I catch him by the elbow and lay my other hand on the small of his back to steady him. Feel a little thrill when I see the bulge of his gun (he still tucks it down the back of his trousers when we go on cases) through his coat. Just barely graze it with my hand, but John still starts, and his head snaps toward me. His brows are knit, mouth ajar and pulling to the right. It’s the face he pulls just before he calls me a mad thing or a wonder. John draws a breath to speak, but before he can, I haul him to me by the elbow I’m still clutching and kiss him. His mouth is cold (only for a moment) and still damp from the recent attention of his tongue. He’s grinning when I let go of him, and I feel an answering grin grow across my own face.

We beam at each other for a moment, then John says, “Race you home?” And he’s off without waiting for me to reply. I fly after him, my eyes watering a bit in the wind, and I can hear little huffs of laughter coming off him like smoke rings.


	279. Chapter 279

"That's mine!"  
"I know, love; I gave it to you. I'm only borrowing it for today."  
"Borrowing implies permission."  
"So I can't wear the hat?"  
"It looks silly on you."  
"Right, well I'm going for drinks with the staff after work today for Halloween, and the transcriptionist bullied me into agreeing to fancy dress. Of course I immediately forgot about it and remembered at half eleven last night. So. The hat. It's all we've got that's costume-y and doesn't have any mysterious and probably unhygienic substances smeared on."  
"That is untrue, and you look silly because you're wearing a tri-corn hat with your normal clothes."  
"Love, I'm going to refer you to the rest of my story. I'll sum up. Forgot to arrange anything, so I'm an eighth of a pirate."  
"Mmm, you could always take off the hat and be a man with the fortitude not to bow to social pressure to participate in silly rituals that are of no personal significance to him."  
"Then I'd have nicked your costume. Bad form."  
"Whoever heard of a pirate in a cardigan?"  
"Well I feel stupid enough in the hat. I don't want to put on any knickerbockers or frilly blouses. If I had any. Which I don't."  
"You look stupid in the hat, but you'd look better if you were more committed."  
"Well I'm not taking one of your swords on the tube."  
"I do not recall offering you one of my swords. Anyway pirates don't carry katanas. Not the sort of pirates who wear tricorn hats anyway."  
"Fair point, love. Got any cutlasses?"  
"No, no cutlasses."  
"Perhaps a blunderbuss?"  
"No, I haven't got a blunderbuss. Though I'd quite like one, actually."  
"Put it in your letter to Father Christmas this year."  
"He never brings me what I ask for."  
"Yeah, I put postscripts on your letters begging him not to. Sorry, love."  
"Treacherous."  
"Oh!"  
"Oh what?"  
"What are you doing today?"  
"Got to interview a client this afternoon around one. On my own, thanks to you."  
"Not going out?"  
"Hadn't planned to."  
"Can I borrow your coat?"  
"What for?"  
"I'm going as you! Can I borrow your coat and your scarf?"  
"Me?"  
"Yeah, it'll be a laugh."  
"You can't be me!"  
"Ha, no I can't be you, but I can wear your coat."  
"You cannot dress as me for your stupid fancy dress work do. It's too ridiculous!"  
"Oh come on, love. It'll be a laugh."  
"You look nothing like me."  
"Well it's a costume."  
"Not yet, it isn't."  
"I've seen people dressed as you before."  
"What wearing coats and scarves?"  
"And the death frisbee."  
"That's not dressing as me! Where have you seen these people?! Under what circumstances?"  
"You know. Halloween. Ha and fans."  
“Ergh, fine. Dress as me. But you will look like an undersized idiot.”  
“I am an undersized idiot.”  
“True.”

…

My Sherlock costume went over really well at work. People either recognised me at once or burst out laughing when I told them I was Sherlock. Very satisfying. I had the coat and scarf off most of the day while I was seeing patients, but I put them back on when I was through with my shift, and it was time to be off to the pub with the rest of the staff. I walked into the waiting room to find nearly everyone gathered at the front desk, chatting and waiting for the stragglers to turn up. In the middle of the scrum stood Sherlock, smiling and talking to the transcriptionist.

“...it’s so silly, isn’t it, Charlie?” he was saying, “They make these beautiful cups of coffee; there’s artistry enough there. You’d think they could manage at least a decent cup of tea. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just drinkable, you know? But,” he sighed as if the end of his sentence were too obvious and too sad to speak aloud. He sounded sincere enough, but there was a slightly sarcastic quirk to his mouth. Charlie didn’t seem to notice; she was nodding avidly and smiling up at him. Sherlock looked up then, and we caught eyes. He grinned at me.

“Hullo love,” we said in unison. I laughed and shook my head.

“Here’s trouble,” Sherlock said warmly to Charlie, who batted at his arm.

“You!” she said, “the pair of you are like newlyweds still. You look so sweet in your matching costumes.”  
Sherlock bounced an eyebrow at me, “Did you hear that, love?” he said. “Newlyweds. I told you we’d look sweet.” He looked back at Charlie, “He said he’d look like an undersized idiot,” he said fondly, shaking his head. “But doesn’t he look marvelous?”

“He does!” Charlie agreed.

“Matching costumes?” I mouthed when Sherlock looked up at me.

He only grinned more broadly and beckoned to me, “What are you lurking over there for, love? Come and say hello and make some pleasant conversation.”

I approached warily. There was something funny about his hair, once I looked properly. It was all smooth and sideswept. And he was standing a bit stiffly as well. I was still cottoning on painfully slowly (as Sherlock would say) when I got close enough to see what he was wearing. He had my coat on, which I’d thought nothing of, since I’d borrowed his. It hung open over one of my cardigans, my favourite shirt, my scarf, and an extremely snug pair of jeans. He looked fantastic. Bastard. What’s more, he really looked like me. The way he was standing, his expression, he’d styled his hair like mine. There was a pair of reading glasses peeping out of his jacket pocket. He even pitched his voice differently. It was a bit eerie. Sherlock kissed me on the cheek and laid his arm across my shoulders when I reached him. “How do we look?” he asked, turning back to Charlie. “We haven’t actually been side by side in our costumes yet.”

“Brilliant,” Charlie said firmly.

Sherlock looked down at me and stroked my shoulder with his thumb, “Did you hear that love? We look brilliant.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, of course,” I said as pompously as I could. “Brilliant. Obviously.”

...

“You mad thing.”  
“You’re not cross? I thought you might be cross.”  
“But you couldn’t resist.”  
“Mmm, I like the way you look at me when I wear these jeans.”  
“You’ve got a very attractive backside.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“Ha, showoff.”  
“It’s what I do.”  
“How did you get your hair like that?”  
“I, er, borrowed Mrs Hudson’s hair dryer. And the internet was very helpful.”  
“Did you? And did she see you like this?”  
“Yes, she was very tickled.”  
“I can imagine.”  
“So. How do I do as John Watson?”  
“Frighteningly brilliant at it, as is your way, love. Bit scary to look at. You should have been an actor.”  
“Bite your tongue, John.”  
“Since you’re me, I’m going to bite yours instead.”  
“Help yourself, Montresor.”  
“I always do, Fortunato.”


	280. Chapter 280

“Put the kettle on, will you John? I’m soaked; it’s pour-John!”  
“What? Are you all right?”  
“I don’t know where you got your ideas, but you better shoo them right back out of your bloggy, little, blonde head, John Watson!”  
“Your teeth are chattering!”  
“What have you done with my papers? You’ve moved everything!”  
“Would you shut up and get out of those clothes? You’re soaked.”  
“Yes, I’ve just said that, John. You haven’t explained yourself. What have you done with my papers?”  
“I tidied up a bit. Forget about that. Go and have a warm shower. I’ll lay a fire.”  
“I know when I’m being deflected, John.”  
“I don’t want you to get hypothermia! Now get out of those clothes!”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”  
“Your teeth are chattering!”  
“I’m fine!”  
“Right, are you going to stop being stupid now, or am I going to have to half-nelson you into the shower?”  
“Brute.”  
“Yeah, I’m so rough on you, not wanting you to freeze to death in the sitting room.”  
“I’m not freezing, John!”  
“Sherlock!”  
“Fine, off I go, if nothing else will please you, ruffian. And don’t think we aren’t discussing this when I come out.”  
“Yes, yes. Go!”  
“Fine, I’m gone.”

...

“Hullo there. Thought maybe you’d turned into an ice lolly.”  
“No, you didn’t.”  
“Just wanted to look in on you.”  
“Now you’ve looked.”  
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”  
“You’re always mysteriously amused whenever I have a bath, John. It is unsettling to be sneered at in dishabille.”  
“I’d never sneer at you in dishabille, lovely. You look sweet in the tub. You go all pink.”  
“Well. Pink looks nice on you.”  
“Ha, right. So it does, love.”

...

“Mmm, look at you. Still all pink. Feeling better?”  
“I know a deflection when I hear one, John Watson."  
"Yes, yes, you're a clever boots. Oh here, love. Your hair is dripping down your neck. You want a towel. No, I'll get it. Just have a seat in your chair. I've laid a fire so you can get nice and toasty. Compliment my husbandship. Oooh, you look as if you're not going to."  
"Don’t try to distract me from your wrong-doings, miscreant. Why are my things in disarray, John Hamish Watson?”  
“Difficult life you lead, my love. Just when you’ve got yourself a lovely tower of topply, teetery, cobwebby, dusty rubbish, your horrible husband comes along and clears it up. However do you manage?”  
“John, are you going to tell me what you’ve done to my papers, or am I going to lose my temper?”  
“All right, then. Settle down. They’re in the filing cabinet.”  
“Filing cabinet?”  
“Yeah, I went to a shop and ordered one for you yesterday. It came today, so I did a bit of tidying. It’s there, by the desk. Can’t believe you didn’t notice it.”  
“You should have said.”  
“I would have done love, but you really seemed to be enjoying your fit.”  
“Fit?!”  
“Oh, are you still enjoying it?”  
“Hmph. Thank you for the filing cabinet, John; that’s very thoughtful.”  
“Ha, you’re welcome, love.”  
“If you rearrange my papers again, I shall have the locks changed while you’re out.”  
“I’d get in.”


	281. Chapter 281

I'm cold.  
-SH 

 

John! I'm cold!  
-SH 

 

You might answer me when I address you directly, John!  
-SH 

 

All right, then! Settle down. My phone was in the kitchen. Where are you?

 

Are you joking? Because I'm really not in the mood.  
-SH 

 

Clearly not in the mood for jokes. No, I am not joking. Where are you?

 

IN THE BEDROOM, JOHN. DIDN'T YOU SEE ME GO IN 2 MINUTES AGO?!  
-SH

 

Yes, I did. I do have eyes. But I thought you must have escaped or something.

 

Escaped?!  
-SH

 

Right, yes, you're in the bedroom. Escape is the furthest thing from your mind. What's got you all interrobang-y?

 

I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOU; I'M FREEZING! COME IN, AND HELP ME GET WARM.  
-SH

 

All right, fine I'll come. Before you punch a hole through your shift key.

 

Hurry up then.  
-SH

 

But no funny business, John. I'm trying to have a sleep.  
-SH

 

No funny business? But you seem so receptive and affectionate.

...

“Oooh, it is quite chilly in here. Might be time for the electric blanket at night. Would you like that, love?”  
"There you are, finally! Get under the bed clothes with me."  
"Ha, yes, I know how going to bed works."  
"This isn't going to bed; it isn't nighttime."  
"I think it still counts as going to bed, love."  
"Enough of your pedantry, John. Get your clothes off, and get into bed. I'm freezing."  
“Love, you see me taking off my jumper, don’t you?”  
“Obviously I see you, John! You’re standing right in front of me!”  
“Well, you can stop squawking at me to do things I’m already doing, can’t you? Unless it’s for warmth. In which case, squawk away.”  
“I don’t squawk!”  
“What would you call it, then?”  
“Insistent encouragement.”  
“Ha, you sound like Mycroft.”  
“John! Bite your tongue, John Watson!”  
“Ha, sorry lo-Jesus! Your feet are freezing, Sherlock!”  
“Yes, I know that, John! I’ve been telling you I’m cold for what seems like aeons!”  
“Oh, you’ve got gooseflesh.”  
“I know that, John! Any other self-evident things you want to tell me? Or are you braying the obvious for warmth?”  
“You want to shut up now, Sherlock. Remember how I’m doing you a favour and just save up some of those insults and parcel them out gradually. Later.”  
“Hmph. Favour. You’re just lying there.”  
“Right, but with the little snit you’re in at the moment, it’s a bit like trying to have a cuddle with a porcupine. Especially with all these knees and elbows you’re being so careless with.”  
“Please don’t ask me to parse your ridiculous metaphors right now, John. I’m really not in the mood for nonsense. Anyway, this proximity is purely business proximity. Not a cuddle. And I’m not in a snit! Only cold and tired, which is enough to try anyone’s patience.”  
“Believe me, I know this is all business. And it was a simile. Not a metaphor.”  
“Oh do shut up and let me get some sleep, John!”  
“Feeling a bit better, then? Bit warmer?”  
“Warm enough to go to sleep, if you’ll shut up and let me.”  
“I will, if you do.”

…

Hullo love,  
God you’re adorable in your sleep. I’m having fun picturing you scowling at me for telling you that. You’re all wrapped round my right arm and leg. And you’re drooling a bit, which shouldn’t make you look incredibly sweet, but it does. I am fond of you, you massive prat. I suppose I’ll wait until you wake up to punch your stupid face, you complete arse. Because I’m so fond of you.  
Yours,  
John


	282. Chapter 282

“Feeling better, then? Or was that a business shag? For warmth.”  
“What did you do to change me, witch?”  
“Amazing what a few hours’ sleep will do for your mood. Anyway, it’s you who’s changed me. I was all set to smother you in your sleep. Or give you a good punch as soon as you’d opened your eyes.”  
“I suppose I was rather insufferable. Sorry.”  
“Nah, it only makes me feel a bit nostalgic when you’re an arse.”  
“Nostalgic, mm? Do you want me to make the coffee? Make it up to you in a nostalgic sort of way?”  
“As it’s midnight, I don’t want any coffee.”  
“Midnight! Have we been asleep nine hours?”  
“Well eight. We’ve been awake for a bit.”  
“Mmm. Indeed. Unnatural to sleep so much. I’m going to have a dreadful headache.”  
“No, you won’t. Come on, let’s get up. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”  
“You and your tea. Tea is your answer to everything.”  
“Well. One of them.”  
“Did you sleep all that time just to keep me company, my John?”  
“Well I got nearly as little sleep last night as you did. You’ve got a knack for keeping me awake when you’re awake.”  
“I’m fascinating. You can’t tear yourself away from me.”  
“Often fascinating, always noisy.”  
“Despite my myriad and oft-enumerated faults, you are always lavishing me with admiration.”  
“Enumerating faults and lavishing with admiration, both?”  
“Yes, you’re a fickle, changeable creature.”  
“Mm. Well. Matched set. You’ve rubbed off on me.”  
“Oh indeed. As often as I can.”  
...

“John, I think your swallowing technique is faulty...See this is exactly what I-all right, John? Are you all right?”  
“F-fine hem fine fine! Hem, pass me that-yes, thank you. Ah. Hem. For what it’s worth, you don’t pat some one who’s choking on the back.”  
“You weren’t choking; you were coughing.”  
“Well, the patting didn’t help!”  
“Sorry.”  
“Anyway. My what is what?! What about my swallowing?”  
“Faulty. You gulp air. I can hear great bubbles of it go down your throat. That’s why you make so much noise over your tea.”  
“Oh. My tea. I thought-”  
“Yes, I can see you did. Can’t imagine why you’d think I’d bring that up out of nowhere over breakfast.”  
“Stranger things have happened.”  
“No, John, no.”  
“Ha, glad to hear it.”  
“But do try to drink more quietly. It’s like breakfasting with a hippopotamus.”  
“I've been swallowing without advice since before you were born, and I’m going to carry on how I have done, thanks.”  
“Stubborn.”

...

“Mmm John, that’s lovely.”  
“How’s the pressure?”  
“Bit harder? Mmmmm thank you.”  
“My pleasure, love.”  
"Have you been dipping into my mind and reading my thoughts, witch? You know what witchcraft gets you."  
"Deduction, love. Not divination."  
"Deduction? My. Do tell."  
"You've been rolling your shoulder all afternoon."  
"Have I?"  
"Is it hurting you?"  
"A bit. Been sitting in one attitude too long."  
"Remember that it's all right that-"  
"Leave it, John."  
"Right. Erm. Shall we have our walk?"  
"Bit of a horrid day."  
"Well quite wet and foggy but not horrid. It'll smell of bonfire smoke and ozone, and there's just a little tiny slip of moon. We like that.”  
“True. Would you lend me your scarf?”  
“Yes, of course have it. We’ll swap.”  
“You are so clever with me, John.”  
“Well, you know. I dip into your mind and read your thoughts.”


	283. Chapter 283

"Your brother could have died last month, you know. You might have come to see him. Or called, at least." John Watson's tie is an eyesore. Crocheted. Horizontally striped. Squared off at the tip. Loathsome. Though at least he's in a suit. He used to do such horrible things with blazers. His jacket is too big in the shoulders. Sherlock ought to take him to Mr Spencer.

"That varies little from his usual routine." John's face flickers predictably from shock to anger to disgust. If I were inclined to, I could pinpoint the exact moment his expression changes from one to the next. Sherlock must relish that. Though he's going very easy on himself, if reading this man makes him feel clever. John Watson's got a face like a lit marquee. John's jaw works, and his left hand flexes as he tries to compose a retort in a timely fashion. He's saved the trouble of it by my assistant entering with the tea trolley. John turns as she does and smiles at her, trying to catch her eye. He’s one of those people who makes a point of being polite to the help.

"Hullo," he says. "Anthea, was it?"

She regards him with polite puzzlement for a moment before I say, "Sydney, you remember Doctor Watson."

"Oh," she says brightly. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Sydney. Nothing else at the moment."

"Yes, sir. Nice to see you again. John."

"Erm, right. Likewise." John watches her out of the room, his discomfiture sitting openly on his face. It's rather distracting, actually. All that feeling, so exposed. It makes one feel rather sorry for him. It's like he’s always going round barefoot.

I rise from my seat to pour out, "Do you take milk?"

"Hm? Oh, er yes, please."

I hand John his cup, seat myself, and watch him sip as he collects his thoughts. Slow progress. I'll help him along. "Sherlock has, ah, intimated that he would prefer to hear much less from me on the subject of my concern for him."

"Maybe if your concern were a bit less to do with snooping and spying, and you were just honest with-"

"Which of us is here secretly, against his express wishes?" John looks rather startled at my prescience. How dull of him.

"Seems like you only bother yourself about his express wishes when it's convenient for you," John says.

"Well," I say delicately, "I'm not married to him."

John sighs and rubs the back of his head with his free hand. “I thought things might have changed a bit,” he says, “what with...losing your mum and all.”

“Ah yes. A dead mother is the well-known key to happy family relations.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John mutters. Interview drawing to a close, I expect. Thank goodness for that. “He’s your little brother. Doesn’t that mean anything to you at all? Aren’t you fond of him at all? Wouldn’t you care even a bit, if something,” John clears his throat, “happened to him?”

Rather galling. “Sherlock does his best to ensure that things happen to him as often as possible. He’s quite a talent for it, actually.”

John’s wearing that little smile he wears when he’s furious. Such an odd expression. I wonder if it’s a conscious affectation. If so, what does he mean it to convey? “So you’ve just decided not to care? It’s that simple, is it?”

I watch his face for a long, silent moment, then say, “What happened on the roof, John? What were you the two of you doing up there?”

John frowns. Comprehension is beginning to creep up on him, I suppose. “Not jumping,” he says.

“Why won’t you tell me, John?” John doesn’t answer. “What am I to make of that?” I press.

“He’s your brother,” John says quietly. “The last of your family. He’s all you’ve got.”

“Is he?” I reply. “Have I got him?” John’s expression collapses at once. I’m starting to feel sorry for him again. It must be so exhausting to twist in the wind like that. To respond so vividly to a handful of words. “May I freshen your cup?” I offer.


	284. Chapter 284

My John exits the Diogenes Club with his mouth downturned, his forehead furrowed, and his chin up. He strides away with the air of feeling himself quite well shot of it. He's moving so quickly that it's nearly a minute before I've fallen into step beside him on his left. His mouth begins to pull to the right, and he raises his left arm slightly and offers me his hand.

"My lovely creep," he says quietly as I take it. "Did you follow me here?"

"Thought there ought to be some one close at hand to bail you, in case you got arrested for murdering my horrible brother." John chuckles obligingly but mirthlessly. Must have been worse than I thought.

The little smile that'd been playing about his lips since I took his hand slides off completely, and the creases in his forehead deepen. "I don't understand him at all," John says. "Does he ever say anything sincere? Is he ever genuine? Ever?"

I shrug. "I suppose he must sometimes say things like, 'hand me a pen' or 'hold the lift, please.'"  
"Well how do you manage that? Talking to him and not knowing what's truth and what's manipulation?"

I shrug again. "John, even the truth is manipulation."

John considers this for a moment before he speaks again, "Has he always been that way?"

I sigh. "Mycroft has imagined his little finger to be the axis of planet Earth for decades now," I tell him. John smiles a little at my celestial metaphor (as I intended him to). "With great power comes great responsibility to be a pompous, overbearing, interfering, snide, manipulative git.”

“Y’know I don’t think I’d heard the end of that one before,” John says, his mouth pulling to the right again. “Did Voltaire have a difficult relationship with his brother as well?”

“Mm indeed. Very common among geniuses, I believe.” John chuckles and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. We walk on in silence for a few minutes, and I begin to hope the subject closed.

“Lonely, must be,” John says softly, almost to himself. “To think of yourself that way. As a sort of. God. Responsible for keeping the world turning.”

“Hm.” I don’t want to discuss this, but I don’t like to ask him not to.

“Does he have any friends?”

“To Mycroft, complete self-reliance is the only true strength.”

“God. I’m not the most sociable guy in the world, but at least before you, I had the sense to realise I was isolated and miserable.” I nod and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, and we have another few moments of silence. I don’t hope this time that he is placated, and of course he begins again after a bit. “Desperate, isn’t it? To feel so adrift? Terrifying.”

He’s looking at me, expects an answer. “Well,” I say, looking back at him, “what has he to be afraid of? What has he got to lose?” I know at once from his expression that my answer was more than a bit not good. John tightens his grip on my hand, but he’s silent for the rest of the walk back to the flat.

...

“You saved me from that, you know. Being like him.”  
“Did I?”  
“Didn’t you know?”  
“I suppose I never thought of it that way.”  
“It doesn’t do to spend more time contemplating Mycroft than what is strictly necessary.”  
“How could I have saved you from anything? You were the amazing one, not me. I was just. Me.”  
“Don’t let me catch you imagining yourself to be anything short of amazing in future, John Watson. Of course you amazed me. You were kind to me without wanting anything from me or patronising me. And you knew what it was to be. A bit. Battered. And to be treated as damaged. You asked good questions, and you kept your eyes open. And you wanted my company. Do you know how often I meet with that particular set of traits, John?”  
“I can guess.”  
“You were a collection of not so remarkable things that made you into an impossibility, John.”  
“An improbability.”  
“Yes. An improbability. You should not have been, but there you were. That flare of kinship, that premonition, that. Hope. It was. Decisive.”  
“Mm so it was, love. Look at you come over all romantic.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Never.”  
“Insolent. Insufferable.”  
“Yes, I’m an insolent, insufferable improbability, and you adore me more than should be humanly possible.”  
“Another improbability.”  
“Ha yes, we’re good at those. Sherlock?”  
“Yes, John?”  
“Don’t you think it seems a bit. Well. Unfair?”  
“Unfair?”  
“I mean, we didn’t earn each other, did we? We just. Happened. Meeting anyway, if not really the rest of it. It was just chance.”  
“Well nothing for it now, John. You’ll never be rid of me. Murder-suicide, remember?”  
“Ha yes, love. Murder-suicide.”


	285. Chapter 285

“It’s nearly your anniversary, isn’t it?”  
“What do you know about my anniversary?”  
“Not much, as I wasn’t invited to your wedding!”  
“Oh lord. No one was invited, Molly. It wasn’t a theatre performance. It wasn’t something we arranged in order for everyone we know to goggle at us. It was private.”  
“I suppose it is quite sweet that you eloped. I wouldn’t have thought you could be so romantic.”  
“Bite your tongue, Molly Marie Hooper!”  
“Even you can’t say it’s not romantic to elope. Like Romeo and Juliet.”  
“You are going the right way for a mysterious and fatal accident!”  
“You want to come up with a better way to end an argument than ‘I’m going to kill you.’ You always say that, and you never kill anybody. Not even Anderson.”  
“Hmph. It really annoys me that your first name and your middle name are the same name.”  
“They aren’t.”  
“Yes, they are!”  
“You two going to do something nice, then?”  
“What?”  
“For your anniversary.”  
“Bit of a personal question, don’t you think?”  
“Most people would just say they were having dinner together!”  
“Then why would you ask such a question? Why on earth would you want to discuss some one else’s dinner?”  
“You aren’t going to tell me, then?”  
“Are you really sure you want to know?”  
“I don’t think it’s anything all that weird. You just want to scare me.”  
“I could scare you.”  
“Why would you want to?”  
“I don’t want to. I only think it’s a horrible habit to ask questions to which you don’t actually want real answers.”  
“Leave my bad habits alone.”  
“I do. This is a horrible habit.”

...

“John!”  
“Yes? What?”  
“Hmm, that depends. Who’ve I got? Mean John or Sweet John?”  
“Just John.”  
“Risky.”  
“Yeah, he is that.”  
“I’ll chance it. Come over here. I need you.”  
“What for?”  
“Help me to undress.”  
“Help you? What’s happened to your arms?”  
“Mm. Sleepy. My shoelaces are in hard little knots. And this shirt’s got tight buttonholes. I need your dextrous surgeon’s fingers on them. I implore you, John. Help me. I’m pitiful. I’m at your mercy.”  
“Tight buttonholes?”  
“Yes.”  
“What makes you think I’ll be able to make anything of your buttonholes?”  
“I’ve complete faith in your dexterity and your mercy both, John.”  
“Flattering.”  
“You’re deflecting, John.”  
“I’m only interested in the psychology of the situation. No, I’m not going to come and untie your shoelaces for you.”  
“Why not?!”  
“Because it’s ridiculous.”  
“John, if I have to wear these clothes another minute, my head will explode. And I’ll die. My brain will be all over the sofa.”  
“I’d just put a bit of sodium bicarbonate on and sweep you into the bin.”  
“We’ve run out. I’ve just used the last in an experiment last Tuesday.”  
“You’ve been plotting this for ages, haven’t you?”  
“Just unbutton my shirt for me. I’ll go to bed in my shoes.”  
“No.”  
“Why not?!”  
“You can unbutton your own shirt!”  
“These buttonholes are tight.”  
“I’ve complete faith in you.”  
“It is Mean John, then. I knew it.”  
“Difficult life you lead, love. However do you manage?”  
“I’m terribly brave. And stoic.”  
“Inspirational.”

...

“Stop it! Stop shifting about! You’ve been squirming for ten minutes!”  
“Scurrilous exaggeration.”  
“You’re still squirming! Sit still, you maniac; you’re keeping me awake.”  
“I’m just trying to get comfortable, John.”  
“Well if you don’t stop all your thrashing about, I’m going to get on top of you and hold you still. And I’ll just head off any clever remarks right here, Mr Cleverboots. It would be business restraint, not leisure restraint.”  
“Mmm, I’m not much of a one for clever remarks, am I? You’re so short-tempered when you’re sleepy, John. I think I’ve got one of your pillows; it’s a rock. You must have one of mine. Let’s swap.”  
“If you’re going to be blathering and thrashing all night, I’m going to roll you out of bed.”  
“Ha, you sound like me.”  
“Sherlock! Shut up and keep still!”  
“Mm that’s the opposite of how you usually go--John! Get off! What are you doing?”  
“I told you I’d restrain you, didn’t I?”  
“You’re not going to be able to go to sleep like that.”  
“We’ll see.”  
“Fine. If you’re comfortable, I’m comfortable.”  
“Good. So’m I.”  
“Good night, John.”  
“Good night, Sherlock.”


	286. Chapter 286

“The time approaches, John.”  
“What time, love?”  
“Don’t you know?”  
“No, I’m afraid not. Want to fill me in?”  
“Have a guess.”  
“Give me a clue.”  
“No, no. I don’t think so. No clues. Deduce it, John. Think. Try licking your lips. That seems to help you to attain some clarity.”  
“Very funny. Maybe I don’t care enough about your little riddles to lick my lips.”  
“Please yourself. It’ll be more fun if it comes on you suddenly anyway.”  
“You’re not plotting some ambush, are you?”  
“We’ll see.”  
“Menace.”  
“You love it.”  
“God, yes.”

...

“Is now the time, love?”  
“Sorry?”  
“You’ve got a look.”  
“Have I?”  
“Yes, a distinct look.”  
“You’re always accusing me of looks, my John.”  
“You’re always plotting and scheming, my Sherlock.”  
“Speciality of mine.”  
“Yeah love, I’d noticed.”  
“Tick tock, John.”  
“Hang on.”  
“Yes?”  
“Is this anything to do with...never mind.”  
“With what?”  
“Nothing. It can’t be that. You hate Doct-”  
“Ergh. Science fiction. No, John. Nothing to do with that.”  
“No, it was a silly idea.”  
“Indeed. You’ll soon see, my John. There are several bits to it. The first bit will be very soon.”  
“I love it when you call me that.”  
“Yes, I know.”

...

“Are you occupied this Friday?”  
“I suppose I’ll be doing whatever you’re about to ask me to do.”  
“We’re going to go and see Mr Spencer.”  
“We’re going to the opera then?”  
“Yes, we’re going two weeks from Monday.”  
“Oh.”  
“Oh? Aren’t you pleased? I thought you wanted to go.”  
“Of course I’m pleased! I’d love to go. Only. I didn’t think you’d take much notice.”  
“Much notice?”  
“It’s for our anniversary, isn’t it?”  
“Why on earth wouldn’t I take notice of that?”  
“Well. You’ve said it was just a bit of paperwork.”  
“Right. So I did.”  
“I don’t mind it much, really. It’s only one day. One day out of all of them. It’s not even our best one.”  
“Not the very best. We live rather remarkable lives.”  
“Yeah, we do.”  
“It isn’t an accident, like a birthday.”  
“No.”  
“And it isn’t even an opportune moment and a little piece of bravery or excitement or electricity like our best days as we’ve discussed them. It’s only one day out of thousands of lovely ones, but it was one that we chose together, coolly and soberly. We don’t only like to play the same sorts of games. We don’t only excite each other. We look after each other. We’re more than each other’s favourite thrill.”  
“Oh Sherlock.”  
“All right, John?”  
“Fine. Hem. Fine. Only a bit. Right.”  
“May I play for you, John? I want to play your piece for you.”  
“Yes, love. I’d really like that.”  
“The new one.”  
“The new one? It’s ready now?”  
“It may continue to progress, but I want you to have it now. I want to give you everything I can. It seems a burden to keep anything back.”  
“I know exactly what you mean, love. Play on. I’m ready to hear you.”

...

“Neal made me promise to invite you to play crazy golf with us on Friday.”  
“We can’t; we’re having our tuxedos altered.”  
“Fine, I knew you wouldn’t want to come along. You don’t have to take the piss.”  
“Ha, we’re really having our tuxedos altered. I’m not taking the piss. Though I suppose it did sound like I was.”  
“You two finally decided to go full James Bond, then.”  
“Ha! I’m going to tell Sherlock you said that. Erm, no. He’s taking me to the opera.”  
“For your anniversary?”  
“Have you two been talking about that?”  
“Not really. I asked, and he told me to get out of it.”  
“Yeah, sorry he’s a bit-”  
“Weird.”  
“Private.”  
“Right. Sorry.”  
“Nah, it’s all right. I suppose he’s a bit weird.”  
“You think he’s brilliant.”  
“He is brilliant!”  
“I know; of course he is.”  
“And he makes complete sense, actually. Most of the time. Only you have to know quite a lot about him to understand his, er, weird bits.”  
“Like anybody else, then.”  
“Oh. Well, I suppose you might look at it that way.”  
“Sorry.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“What are you seeing?”  
“Sorry?”  
“The opera? Which one are you seeing?”  
“Oh, something called Parsifal.”  
“Never heard of it.”  
“Me neither. I’m really excited, though.”  
“Yeah, you look excited.”


	287. Chapter 287

"So, the opera."  
"Yes, what about it?"  
"That's what you're doing for your anniversary."  
"Incorrigible snoop."  
"Well that's not scary."  
"Mm."  
"Are you annoyed with me Sherlock?"  
"Only mildly disconcerted at the satisfaction you seem to take from investigating my business. It's a bit unsettling."  
"John told me. I didn't even ask."  
"How generous of him."  
"You made it sound so odd."  
"You've a wild imagination, Molly Hooper; you give me too much credit for iconoclasty. It may surprise you to learn that I generally sleep in a bed instead of hanging upside down from my ceiling, and that I eat ordinary food instead of feasting on the flesh of innocents."  
"I don't think you're a vampire."  
"Vampires don't eat flesh."  
"Beg pardon, I didn't mean to slander your people."  
"Mind it doesn't happen again."  
"Sorry."  
"Don't mention it."

…

“Sherlock, I’ve some sad news.”  
“Do you? You look delighted about it.”  
“You’re misinterpreting my expression.”  
“I suppose it happens to the best of us.”  
“There you are, love. Brave face. Now. My terribly sad news.”  
“Yes, do go on.”  
“I would do, if you’d stop interrupting.”  
“My apologies, John. Please continue.”  
“Right, love I’ve realised there’s no possible way we can go to the opera.”  
“No? That is terribly sad. What prevents us?”  
“It’s a who, not a what. And the who is you. You do.”  
“I do? How could I do such a thing?”  
“You look too beautiful in your tuxedo. You’d be swarmed. There would be riots. Terribly disruptive.”  
“Goodness.”  
“Can’t have that.”  
“Certainly not. Though I must say, I’m a bit surprised at your hypocrisy.”  
“Hypocrisy?!”  
“You’re a vision in your tuxedo, my John. Resplendent in a shawl collar. Magnificently magnificent in midnight blue.”  
“I am glad I chose the blue over the black.”  
“Mr Spencer is very persuasive.”  
“And I look damn good.”  
“Too good. You’ll be enchanting the general public, witch. Can’t have that.”  
“So we’re in agreement, then? For the good of England, neither of us must go anywhere in our respective tuxedos.”  
“We might go in dishabille, I suppose.”  
“Trust you to find the answer, love.”  
“Mmm, some have called me the brightest mind in Britain.”  
“Europe, at least.”

…

“Gibbous moon out tonight, love. You like those.”  
“Indeed. You look as if you’re thinking of what a perfect night it is for witchcraft, my wicked witch.”  
“Do I?”  
“Mmm yes, John, you do.”  
“You might be projecting, love.”  
“No, I can see your witchy thoughts playing right across your face, John.”  
“Can you?”  
“Yes, I can.”  
“Well you’ll want your eyes checked, or at least your third eye, love because I was actually thinking how much I’m going to enjoy our walk tonight.”  
“Were you?”  
“Yes, it’s about to rain. I do enjoy a bit of petrichor from time to time.”  
“A bit of what?”  
“Petrichor. Have I just used a word you’re unfamiliar with? Goodness. Let me get my diary. Momentous occasion.”  
“Let’s not overexcite ourselves.”  
“Ha, that’s the opposite of how you usually go.”  
“Are you going to tell me what ‘petrichor’ is?”  
“Can’t you deduce it?”  
“Use it in a sentence.”  
“Another sentence, you mean?”  
“Get on with it, John.”  
“You smell of petrichor.”  
“Not helpful.”  
“Ha, all right then. It’s that smell in the air when it first rains after it’s been dry for a bit. That damp dust smell.”  
“That’s what I smell of, is it? Damp dust? Flattering.”  
“No, it’s lovely. It’s like you’re some wild thing that just grew up out of the ground.”  
“Like a toadstool.”  
“Shut up when I’m being romantic.”  
“My apologies, John.”  
“That’s better. Anyway, we’ll go out for our walk and you’ll have moonlight in your hair--shut up--and if we walk long enough, you’ll go pink just across your cheekbones--shut up--and your eyes might go bright like they do when you’re deducing something--shut up--and perhaps you’ll hold my arm--shut up!--and eventually we’ll come back to the flat, and I’ll put the kettle on, and you’ll curl round me on the sofa like a Great Dane that thinks it's a housecat, and you’ll have that petrichor smell coming off your hair and your collar and your throat and mm. I like that. It’s like you’re a thing that came out of the rain. Sort of. Ethereal. Ooooh, look at you. Got to you a bit, haven’t I?”  
“Shut up, John. Sentimental, poetic rubbish. Hem.”  
“Ha. You can’t fool me.”  
“Can. Have. Do. Will.”  
“Mmm not about this. Ready for our walk then, love?”  
“Yes, John. Ready when you are.”


	288. Chapter 288

"You don't think we should take it."  
"Well, it's what we do, isn't it?"  
"But you don't want to take this one."  
"Are you asking me or telling me?"  
"Asking, I suppose."  
"You sound like you're telling, and you've got it all worked already what I think."  
"Have I got it all worked out already?"  
"I'm not asking you not to take the case. I can see you want to."  
"I can see you don't want to."  
"Then why are we talking about it? You know what you need to know, don't you? So just. Decide."  
"It won't interfere with our plans, John."  
"Well. We hope not. Might do."  
"We've got two weeks. It's not going to take that long to solve. It never does."  
"Never say never. Anyway, one of us could be injured."  
"That's very unlikely."  
"It's just happened!"  
"That was nearly two months ago."  
"Right, well. You've made your mind up, then."  
"He hasn't even asked me to consult on this one yet."  
"But he will, and you'll accept."  
"Unless you don't want me to."  
"You know what I want."  
"You haven't asked me not to."  
"Right, I think I'll have a walk. See you later."  
"I'll come along. Let me get my things on."  
"No, thanks. Not looking for company."  
"John."  
"Yes?"  
"See you in a bit then."  
"Right."

...

"Come on, John!"  
"Come on John what?"  
"Come on John, let's go."  
"Where are we going?"  
"Lestrade's just texted me."  
"Oh."  
"Well? Come on. Get your things on."  
"Nah, don't think I will. Thanks."  
"You're making me go alone?"  
"I'm not making you do anything."  
"Well I can't go without you, can I?"  
"You went without me for at least a decade before I turned up. I expect you'll manage."  
"I've already said we'd have a look."  
"Yeah, clearly."  
"Well?"  
"No. I'm not coming."  
"Really?"  
"Really really really."  
"Well. Erm. Back in a bit, then. Kiss for luck?"  
"I thought you didn't need luck."  
"I need you."  
"Hmm."  
"John, please."  
"Stop it. Shut up. Stop acting like I'm the one being hard on you. I'm not going to beg you to give me what I want, so just. Be off, if you're going."  
"Right. Well. See you in a bit, John."  
"Yep." 

...

You're not being entirely reasonable, you know.   
-SH 

 

This is my living and my passion. I can't just give it up for a month whenever we might have something else to do.  
-SH 

 

It's not going to take two weeks to attend to this, and you know it.   
-SH 

 

It'll be done soon, and I won't take another until after our outing. I promise.   
-SH 

 

I hate it when you do this.   
-SH 

 

Refuse to speak to me.   
-SH 

 

John?  
-SH 

 

Please, John.  
-SH 

 

I suppose it's your prerogative to be stubborn.   
-SH 

 

Yeah, it is. Just as much as it is yours. I'm not always going to be the entirely reasonable one, got it??

 

So you admit you're being unreasonable?  
-SH 

 

Oh fuck off. 

...

“Wait, hang on. Where’s John? Shouldn’t we wait for him? He paying the cabby?”  
“He’s not coming.”  
“Not coming?”  
“Not. Coming.”  
“But why not? He’s not working, is he? It’s not his usual day for it.”  
“He fancied a night in.”  
“Fancied a night in?”  
“Fancied. A. Night. In. Is that quite all right with you, Lestrade? May we get on with what I have been called here to do now? Or is this your cunning way of tricking me into small talk?”  
“Is something-”  
“Fine.”  
“You haven’t had a-”  
“Fine, Lestrade. Leave it. Hey, let go my arm! If you want to speak to me privately, you can just say so! No need to manhandle me like that. I can walk, even when I don’t want to! Let go!”  
“Something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”  
“No. It isn’t.”  
“Well, you don’t have to talk about it with me, if you don’t want to, mate, but I’m going to tell you something anyway.”  
“Oh joy. I suppose there’s no stopping you.”  
“No, none. Now as some one who’s been married before, and yes, you can make a rude joke about my ex sleeping with a PE teacher, or you can shut up and get some useful advice from a person who has a bit more relationship experience than you do. Which one is it going to be, eh? We can do both, if you like, but the latter’s quicker.”  
“Get on with it, then, if you must.”  
“I must. Look, just go home and make it up with John. Whatever it is.”  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“Yeah, I do. I mean, I don’t, but yeah a bit I do. Whoever’s in the wrong--I’m not having a guess!--if there weren’t something really amiss, he’d be here. So just go home right now and sort it out.”  
“There’s a man lying dead, Lestrade. I think that’s a bit more-”  
“Is it, though? I mean you can’t turn back the clock, can you? You can’t bring him back to life by pissing off your husband. So go and fix it, and maybe you’ll come back later, yeah? We can manage without you.”  
“In a manner of speaking.”  
“Oh shut up. Go home. You know I’m right.”  
“For once in your life.”  
“You’re not much good without him anyway. Don’t look like that. I know you think so yourself. Good’s a relative measure, and your off day blows my whole department out of the water by a long, long shot. I don’t deny that. But you’re not yourself without him, are you?”  
“No.”  
“So go home, then. I’ll see you later.”  
“Right. Maybe.”  
“Bye, Sherlock.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Don’t mention it. Glad I could help.”


	289. Chapter 289

Where are you?  
-SH 

 

I told you I’m not coming! 

 

No, John. I’m in the flat. Where’ve you gone?  
-SH 

 

Please come back.   
-SH 

 

Oh. 

 

You came back?

 

Yes. Where are you?  
-SH 

 

I’m down in the cafe having a sandwich.

 

Sorry. 

 

I didn’t know you’d be back so soon. That must have startled you. 

 

A bit.  
-SH 

 

Sorry. I would never do that to you. Just disappear. 

 

No.  
-SH 

 

I’m coming up. Do you want anything?

 

I’ll bring you an onion soup, okay?

 

Thanks.   
-SH 

...

“I got you a sandwich as well because you didn’t eat your lunch.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
“Erm, John.”  
“Yes?”  
“I’m sorry. I don’t know where to start.”  
“Apologising is an excellent start, lovely.”  
“I’m sorry, John. I. I want to give you anything you ask for. You should have anything you want. I was a stubborn arse, and I’m sorry. We agreed that we’d do them together or not at all, and that’s the way we’ll do them. And if you don’t want to do one, for any reason at all, we’re not going to do it.”  
“I suppose I was a bit of an arse myself, love. I shouldn’t have said. Some of that. Erm. Only I kept thinking how I’d got stuck with being Mean John again.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, I mean. I keep finding myself the stodgy one, you know?”  
“I don’t see you that way at all!”  
“You don’t?”  
“Not at all! John, you’re more than just my favourite thrill, but you are my favourite thrill. You excite me, and you fascinate me, and you understand me, and you’re gentle with me. You’re not stodgy. I didn’t know you felt that way. I’m sorry to have caused it. You’re absolutely my favourite playmate, John. I couldn’t be more delighted with you. You’re not an impediment to things I want to do; you make everything better! And I’ve been an arse, and I’m really sorry.”  
“Ha. Hem. All right, then. Erm. Kiss and make up? ...mmm that’s better, isn’t it?”  
“Much better, my John.”  
“We always sort it out, don’t we, lovely?”  
“Well I’m an idiot genius, and you’re a genius idiot.”  
“Right, we’re a matched set. How could we go too far wrong?”

...

“John?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“What was the smallest thing you loved about me today?”  
“Hmm?”  
“You told me once that you always loved at least one little thing about me before. Back before I died, you know. I think you said the smallest thing you ever loved about me was my philtrum. And. I’ve not been very lovable today, so I was wondering.”  
“Well firstly, let me refute as heartily as I can the notion that the way I feel about you fluctuates. Well I mean, yeah sometimes you’re a right pain in the arse, love, but we all have our moments. You are my match. Even when one or both of us is being a bit of an annoying dick. Got it?”  
“Yes. Erm. Likewise.”  
“Quite right, too. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I’m not going to let you run off like that again. Either I’m going with you, or you’re staying with me, and I’m not afraid to throw my weight around.”  
“Well you didn’t let me run off.”  
“You think so, do you?”  
“I am a grown man, John. You can appeal to my conscience, but-”  
“Didn’t you hear me say I’m not afraid to throw my weight around?”  
“Oh, did you mean that literally?”  
“If I had to, I would slide tackle you and sit on your head.”  
“Was that meant to be a deterrent, John? Because it sounds rather exciting.”  
“Well perhaps we’ll try a bit of leisure tackling in the near future, mm?”  
“Mmm. Though you still haven’t answered my question.”  
“Well it’s a silly question. I love every bit of you. But, if pressed, I’d say today I was particularly fond of that freckle just above your left eyebrow.”  
“This one?”  
“That’s the one.”  
“Well it is one of my handsomer freckles.”  
“Mmm, don’t I know it.”


	290. Chapter 290

"You finally decided to top me then, eh?"  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"What's this on my desk?"  
"Lestrade, can I see your desk? I may be, well am, an excellent detective, but I am not psychic, nor am I hiding in your ceiling nor peeping through your keyhole."  
" 'Sorry to leave you in the lurch. Best regards, Sherlock'"  
"So you do know what it is, then."  
"A bottle of Lagavulin. Can't think how you know it's my favourite. Anyway, I assume it's poisoned."  
"Mm, if only I'd had the foresight. I might have been spared this conversation."  
"Well thanks."  
"Thank you, Greg."  
"Oh it was nothing. Hang on, I don't mean nothing. It was my pleasure."  
"Thank you."  
"You're welcome."  
"Enjoy your poison."

...

“John, do I look after you properly?”  
“Are you asking because we had an argument?”  
“I’m asking because you’ve been looking after me beautifully lately. I feel I’ve been rather derelict in comparison.”  
“Don’t be stupid.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Of course I’m sure. Anyway. We take different sorts of looking after, don’t we?”  
“Do we?”  
“Yeah, you’re brilliant at looking after me. You keep me all brimming with verve.”  
“Do I?”  
“Yes, you’re the ultimate bon vivant.”  
“I would never have described myself that way.”  
“Well you are. You’re the most alive person I’ve ever seen. You make me feel more lively myself just looking at you. Sometimes you’re just like. Crackling with vivacity. It’s incredible.”  
“You pay me such delightful compliments, John.”  
“I’m glad you think I do you justice, lovely.”

...

“Mmm, are you trying to get me drunk?”  
“Well you’re a very affectionate drunk, John.”  
“I’m always affectionate! I lavish you.”  
“True.”  
“Of course it’s true. You’re a very lucky man.”  
“Mmm, indeed. But it’s a very particular sort of affection I’m thinking of at the moment, John..”  
“Is it?”  
“Yes, when you’ve had a bit, your affection goes rather warm and damp.”  
“Goodness. Isn’t that frank.”  
“You know what I mean. It gets very. Visceral.”  
“I suppose that’s a compliment.”  
“Mmmmmm.”  
“I think you’d better freshen my glass.”  
“I was just going to say.”


	291. Chapter 291

John, I’m trying to think of the best way to phrase a confession.  
-SH 

 

Oh god. 

 

I took my best lockpick off you before you left this morning. Did you notice?  
-SH 

 

Out with it, Sherlock. 

 

Have patience with me, John.   
-SH 

 

Sherlock, you are worrying me. What have you done? 

 

Nothing yet.   
-SH 

 

Help me, John. Bolster my fortitude.   
-SH 

 

Just spit it out, Sherlock! 

 

John. I want to shoot the wall.  
-SH 

 

NO! If you shoot the wall, you will be in serious, serious trouble. 

 

You say that like it’s a deterrent.   
-SH 

 

You’re very bad at thinking of threatening threats, John.   
-SH 

 

Remember when you threatened to turn me over your knee?  
-SH 

 

You like everything I do to you. 

 

Still, if you shoot the wall, I will find it in me to invent something really horrid and do it to you. 

 

Something with jumpers and kittens and little bows and rainbows and sparkly things. 

 

You know I’d find a way to derive some enjoyment from your ribbon-y, sparkly, kitten-y, rainbow-y jumper.   
-SH 

 

Pervert. 

 

Yes, and it always works to your advantage.   
-SH 

 

True. 

 

I believe I have found a way around this difficulty that will be mutually agreeable.   
-SH 

 

I’m on the edge of my seat. 

 

I recently learned through my extensive reading that a passionate kiss releases the same hormones in the brain as does firing a gun.   
-SH 

 

Have you just used the words ‘passionate kiss’?

 

Never mind. I’ll just shoot the wall, then. Good luck inventing your horrible thing.  
-SH 

 

No no no! I’m queuing to pay. I’ll be home soon. 

 

If I come home to find any new holes in anything, there’ll be passionate nothing for a good long while. How’s that for inventive?

 

Very inventive.   
-SH

 

Monster.   
-SH 

...

“Oomph. God. Well then. Feeling better?”  
“Give me a moment to catch my breath before you go quizzing me about my feelings, John.”  
“Ha, sorry. Got your breath back, then?”  
“Mmmmm. Enough I suppose. And I wasn’t feeling bad before. Not exactly. But yes, much better.”  
“I do what I can.”  
“Yes, you’re terribly talented with me, John. Though I don’t see why you’re the only one who’s allowed to feel like firing a gun.”  
“I don’t fire it because I fancy hearing a great, big, bang. I fire it when it’s absolutely necessary.”  
“Your definition of ‘absolutely necessary’ is so inflexible.”  
“Too right it is. Anyway we sorted you without any firing necessary, didn’t we?”  
“Yes, well done us.”  
“Ha, right. Well done us.”  
“I can still hardly believe you made me put the shopping away first.”  
“Mmm I’m inventively horrible. Anyway, I’m not going to let the milk go off just because you’re a bit. Restless. You’ll thank me when next you have your tea.”  
“Your foresight is exasperating and commendable in equal measures, John.”  
“I reckon it’s one of the reasons you’re so fond of me.”  
“That’ll be 602 on my list.”  
“I suppose this sets up rather an unfortunate precedent. Whenever you feel the need for some affectionate attention, you’ll threaten to shoot the walls, mm?”  
“Forgive me, John but I believe there was already a similar precedent established.”


	292. Chapter 292

John,  
My brilliant John. You are always showing me to myself. Even when you do not understand the precise nature of my murkiness, you are able always to bring me clarity. I do not have much confidence in my ability to convey my feelings to you with any grace at all. I will try my hand at it anyway. To struggle is my nature. It’s the only way I know how to accomplish anything.

As you know, I am not a man who finds it easy to share himself. I am brave enough to try because I know that you are always ready to be pleased with me, always ready to meet me where I am. I flatter myself I have absorbed a bit of your strength and your courage through proximity. It’s been such a boon to be always near a man whom I admire. I do admire you more than I know how to say. Your calm, your steadiness, your active compassion. I believe that learning you is helping me to understand the world better. I don’t mean to imply that the world is populated with John Watsons. Far from it. But your gentleness makes you wise. Attempting to affect your perspective is very enlightening.

There’s been an idea in my head that is beginning to solidify enough for me to attempt to relate it to you. I’ve realised something because of my experiences with you. It is possible to live a dark, difficult, and dangerous life, indeed to court darkness, difficulty, and danger and, despite the resultant chaos, to be happy and content. I can anticipate the ruin of my plans without fear because I know I have you with me to navigate the wreckage. Joy and levity need not be shafts of light glimpsed through a grate. I must pursue them, but I can have them as much as any other person can. Particularly since I’ve got you at my side to help me chase them down. We do love a chase, don’t we, my John?  
S

...

Trying to write to John can be so frustrating. There seems impossibly much between us. How have I been afforded so much intimacy with such a person? How staggering that we’ve got so much still in front of us. All the rest of our lives. I have so much I want to tell him, and language seems to sort of melt away when I touch pen to paper. I am very talented at inventing callous witticisms, and that is no good to me at all when it comes to writing love letters. I think that training myself at the former has stunted my aptitude for the latter. If I ever had any. Is a person born knowing how to write love letters? Is it something one unteaches oneself?

Sometimes when I look at John, I can think of pretty things to say and make myself say them without blushing or stammering. Sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly make myself say his name without blushing or stammering. I have other ways to tell him things and show him things. I have my music. I am not gifted at music. I often feel as feeble a musician as I am a poet. But that is fitting. It is appropriate. It must not come too easily to reveal myself to John. I must prize each moment of clarity. My music is imperfect, but it’s better than my words. So often when I play for him, I can look into his face and know that we are thinking each other’s thoughts.

There just plain aren’t words in the dictionary to describe the enormity of my feelings for John. I continue to try to show him corners of it. To place his hands so that he can feel around the edges. A bit like pointing to the night sky above London and asking him to imagine the galaxy. Here’s me with my celestial metaphors again. John’s doing (witchcraft). He plants an idea in me, and it grows and grows and grows. He teaches me how to speak to him, though he doesn’t know he does. Does he? Impossible to find out. At this point anyway. I haven’t got the vocabulary to ask in an intelligible way. Not yet. Perhaps he’ll teach me how to ask him. I’m sure he will.


	293. Chapter 293

“You could do that professionally, you know,” I remarked tucking Sherlock’s letter into my pocket.

“Do what professionally?” Sherlock asked absently, pulling the earpieces of his stethoscope out of his ears. He’d been listening to my heart while I read his letter, his expression affectedly grave, his eyes fixed on his watch. I was quite proud to have resisted remarking on that. He behaved with such studied nonchalance that I was sure it was a rather tender subject for him. Sherlock tossed the stethoscope onto the floor, (more studied nonchalance) slung himself nimbly onto my lap, and wrapped one arm round my neck.

I paused to enjoy him nosing along my collar, damp and warm and ticklish. I squirmed a bit and felt him smirk. “Write love letters,” I answered.

Sherlock huffed a hot little blast against my throat. “There’s no such thing as that,” he said.

“You’d invent the job. You like inventing jobs.”

Sherlock grazed sharp, retaliatory teeth against my neck and steadied himself by resting his free hand on my waist when I squirmed again. “I invented the job I have now because it was necessary.”

“Mmm, and you don’t think the lovers of the world are in need of your assistance?”

Sherlock drew back and looked into my face so that I could see him roll his eyes, “Whether they need my assistance or not, they’ll have to struggle on without it, John.”

“Poor sods. You don’t fancy the idea, then? A modern day Cyrano de Bergerac? Sherlock Holmes, consulting swain.”

“Ergh!” Sherlock spat with such vehemence that he actually choked on it. He coughed and glared at me, and I laughed so hard at his expression that I choked a bit, too. Sherlock decided to change the subject when we’d done coughing. “We don’t say things like,” he sighed rather scornfully, “‘I love you’ and it seems equally flimsy to wish you a happy anniversary. Instead I’ll congratulate you on surviving a year of marriage to Sherlock Holmes. Well done, you. I’m impressed.”  
I laughed again and kissed him, “Yes, I think that’s some sort of record.”  
Sherlock giggled. “Indeed it is. You should be put into the record books. No one’s ever accomplished such a thing, and anyone else would be an utter fool to attempt it.”

“True. For more reasons than one. I’m vainglorious, though,” I said. “I intend to break my record every year.”

“And here I thought I was the thrill-chaser,” Sherlock said, tucking his face against my neck again and curling an arm round my waist.

“You’re setting records as well, love,” I told him.

“Mmm?” he hummed against me. “Am I? You’re as dangerous as I am, then, Montresor?”

“Oh yes. If not more so, Fortunato.”


	294. Chapter 294

“How am I, then?”  
“If you feel like you look, entirely magnificent.”  
“Ha thanks, love. Is my tie straight?”  
“Absolutely straight, John. Superlatively straight. If you were halved along your vertical axis, you would have not a micron more tie on either side.”  
“You look rather brilliant yourself you know.”  
“Mmm, I do know, yes. Going from the way you’ve been looking at me. Thank you, John.”  
“The velvet jacket was a really excellent choice.”  
“Here’s me blushing.”  
“Oh, you mean like I did during the fitting when you said, ah, what was it? Something like, ‘John, no matter how much you flatter me about my jacket, I’ll not be enjoying Parsifal on my knees in a coat cupboard.’”  
“Well, I won’t!”  
“I never suggested that!”  
“You had that coat cupboard look, John. You were licking your lips. I know what that means.”  
“Well. That’s neither here nor there. You didn’t have to say it so loud, anyway. Mr Spencer nearly heard you.”  
“Oh, he did not. It was next door to a whisper. Anyway, as much as I adore bickering with you about coat cupboards, my John, the car is here. Just got the text. Shall we?”  
“Yes, love, by all means. Let’s.”

...

“Oh hello, dearie! Back, are you?”  
“Yes, we just got in. John’s upstairs. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”  
“Not at all, dearie! Thank you for looking in. I do like to see you. Kettle’s about to boil. Won’t you sit down?”  
“Well, just for a moment.”  
“Are you hungry, dear?”  
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”  
“Are you sure? Did you have dinner before the opera?”  
“Yes, we went to Angelo’s. I’m fine. I’m not hungry.”  
“Biscuits, then. Just this once. I’ve got those ginger ones you like. I just did the shopping, and I know you like these, Sherlock. I’ll get them; it’s no trouble, dear.”  
“Thank you.”  
“There you are, dear. The kettle will boil any minute.”  
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”  
“No trouble at all, Sherlock. How did you like the opera, dear? Was it lovely? It must have been lovely. My husband took me to the opera once. I felt so elegant, and then I went and cried so hard that my make up ran, and I got great raccoon eyes.”  
“What did you see?”  
“You know dear, it’s been forty-five years, and I can’t remember! Ha, funny, isn’t it? I don’t remember the elegant dress or the sad music. All I really remember about that night is how I felt. Did you enjoy yourselves? Any tears?”  
“Mmm, yes, we enjoyed ourselves tremendously. Ha, no tears.”  
“I’m glad you had a nice time, dearie. You looked so lovely together when you left in your beautiful clothes.”  
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”  
“Your John looks lovely in his tuxedo, doesn’t he? Such a handsome man.”  
“Yes, very handsome.”  
“You two look so sweet together.”  
“Thank you. Erm. Mrs Hudson, you took a photo of us as we were leaving this evening. Do you think you might-”  
“I’ve already sent it to you, dear. Oop, there’s the kettle.”  
“Thank you. Don't get up. I’ll get it.”

...

“Well I look very handsome, don’t I?”  
“Always.”  
“Ha thanks love. I meant in the photo. Nice photo.”  
“Oh, yes. Though I’m not looking looking at the camera.”  
“You’re looking at me. I like that. You look all pleased and smug.”  
“Yes, I’m very smug of you. As established.”  
“Too right you are. Oh!”  
“Yes?”  
I’ve just remembered. I forgot-”  
“You’ve just remembered you forgot?”  
“Haaaaaa. Shut up. I've written you a letter, clever boots. To mark the occasion. Go and get the biscuit tin, and I’ll read it to you.”

…

Hullo love,

As we’ve already established, I can’t write to you the way you write to me, my consulting swain. But I’ll have a go anyway because I know you like it. I quite like it as well. I’ll cheat a bit and make things easier on myself, though. Can’t help it really, because there’s a bit from your lovely letter to me that I can’t stop thinking about. About being happy despite having a dark and difficult life. And something about chasing down joy. I should get the letter out, so I can quote you properly, but I’d likely only end up copying exactly what you wrote and signing my name to it. What you wrote was so perfect, I don’t hope to improve on it. I only want to praise you a bit. We like that.

I love that idea. That idea of chasing down joy alongside you, my lovely. I don’t know that either of us quite has a knack for making ourselves happy. Not when we’re each on our own. And perhaps we don’t necessarily attend all that well to making ourselves happy even when we are together. But we are both extremely determined to make each other happy, aren’t we? We court joy just as ardently as we court danger and darkness. We want to tell each other things and give each other things and show each other things. Things worth hearing and having and seeing and knowing. You like to tell me I’m easily-pleased, but you’re just as ready to be happy with me as I am to be happy with you, aren't you? We make each other quite giddy sometimes. Brilliant, isn’t it? What a thrill that I get to spend my life trying to delight you and being delighted with you.

Yours,  
John


	295. Chapter 295

“It’s quite well fixed on, you know.”  
“Sorry?”  
“My arse. It won’t fall off, if you let go of it.”  
“This is not exclusively for your benefit, John... Oh shut up laughing.”  
“Mmm never.”  
“Do you really want me to let go?”  
“No.”  
“Thought not.”

...

"Oi! What was that for?"  
"Vengeance."  
"Vengeance? I haven't done anything to you!"  
"Then there's another small blonde man going round mussing people. Look sharp, John. He's probably still in the flat. You're next, I expect."  
"It was affection!"  
"Well now I look like a scarecrow. Bit more gentle next time, mmm?"  
"Your affection musses me much more than my affection musses you."  
"Oh is that another of our friendly competitions?"  
"No, you don't know how to do friendly competitions. You only know how to gloat over a bloodbath. Or sulk over one."  
"You cheat!"  
"See?"  
"Hmph. I’m not sulking."  
"And I don't cheat."  
"Yes, you do!"  
"Just accept that I'm better at board games than you are."  
"No, you aren't!"  
"Then why do I always win?"  
"Because you're a cheat! Hey!”  
“Whoops. Mussed again.”  
“Here’s a game I can win handily.”  
“No, I think you’re more mussable than I am.”  
“Is that a challenge?”  
“Did it sound like one?”

...

"Don't worry, John; I'll save you!"  
"What?"  
"Hasn't your jumper come sentient and tried to eat your head?"  
"It's a rollneck!"  
"Oh, is that what's wrong with it?"  
"Nothing's wrong with it!"  
"Oh, John. We both know that's not remotely true."  
"I like it."  
"Are you sure?"  
"You don't like it."  
"Well spotted."  
"I don't care you don't like it."  
"Clearly. And why should you? It's very festive."  
"You and fair isle. Well I'm just getting warmed up, jumper-wise. You've only just scratched the surface of my jumper festivity."  
"Good god, John. My blood's gone cold."  
"I'll lend you a jumper."

...

"Ahhhahahah what are you doing?"  
"You know what I'm doing."  
"I know you've suddenly got my earlobe in your mouth for some reason."  
"Mmmm, a few reasons.The most recent being that it causes you warble in surprise."  
"Warble?!"  
"What would you call it?"  
"What did you put your mouth on my ear for?"  
"Well I suppose primarily because I fancied trying to find the pinprick of the old piercing with my tongue."  
"Oh."  
"Mmm."  
"You said there were a few reasons?"  
"It tastes very nice.”  
“Of course it does. What else?”  
“I like to make you squirm, John.”  
“Ha, well you’ve certainly got a talent for that, love.”  
“Lots of practise.”


	296. Chapter 296

"So. Destined to limp, it seems. My fate is catching up to me...Oh. I’m sorry love. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean to upset you."  
"No, it's. You're going to be good as new very shortly, John."  
"Well. We'll see."  
"You are!"  
"Ha, I appreciate your faith in my bones, love. But I don't think it quite works that way."  
"I'll make it work."  
"Well. If anyone could, you."  
"It isn't a severe break, John. It’s a fracture."  
"Right, count my blessings and all."  
"I wouldn't say that ridiculous rubbish to you. I only meant that it's more likely to heal without leaving permanent damage."  
"Let's hope so."  
"Yes. Well. Would you like another cushion?"  
"Love one, thanks."  
"And a cup of tea?"  
"If you don't mind."  
"Anything, John."  
"Thanks, love."  
"Anything. Always."

...

John has been shuddering next to me for about five minutes now. Nightmare. He utters an occasional grunt or gasp, and I have to fight down the urge to wake him. I have to remind myself that the nightmares aren’t stopping him getting the rest he needs, but if he wakes up, he may not get back to sleep. He needs his sleep to heal properly (he’s going to heal properly)(He’s not going to limp). This is the second nightmare he’s had this week(that I know of). Before now, it’d been ages. It’s the ache in his leg that sets off the nightmares, I think. His unconscious mind dragging him through his past. Trying to account for his pain.

Find his hand in the blankets and squeeze it very gently. Reassuring myself, really. Here he is. My John, safe and whole (nearly whole)(mostly whole). It’s completely dark in the room, and the only sounds are the sounds of John’s distress. Fertile ground for a nightmare of my own. Not a nightmare exactly. I’m awake. I’m conscious. But my brain is in a sort of loop I can’t break out of. I keep wondering if his dreams are forcing him to watch me flutter from a height like a dead leaf on a still day. Keep hearing my own name in that faraway, anguished wail. Couldn’t delete that, never never. I don’t delete things to do with John, and the bits around that day are especially protected. It is a precious sort of torment. A priceless agony.

Huddle closer to John, touch his skin, breathe his smell. It’s a bit off right now. His smell. Slightly sour with fear and stress. Still, it’s my John. Safe and very nearly whole. Draw long breaths, trying to soothe myself. Must stay calm in case he wakes. Press even closer to him and I can feel his heart racing. He may wake. I rub large, firm circles on his back, trying to quiet him without waking him. The hand in mine twitches and pulls away. I reach for it again, but when I bump it, John catches my wrist. His fingers flutter against it a moment. When they settle, I realise he’s feeling for my pulse. He brings his free hand up and cards his fingers through my hair, then slides it down to my face and strokes my brow, my cheek, my chin. Checking. I am in tact, John. I hope he can tell.

“John?” My whisper is rough. He does not reply. Still asleep. His breathing is steadying, though. I think his heart rate is slowing. It is. It’s definitely slowing. Stroke his back even more firmly. John licks his lips. Can’t see him, but I can hear it. Sticky sort of sound. His mouth runs dry, particularly when he’s asleep.

“Mmm Sherlock?”

I squeeze him. “I’m here, John.” My voice is still rough. “Go back to sleep.”

“Right. ‘Night, love.” He doesn’t remember the dream, bless him.

“Good night, John.” John gives me a light little buss on the forehead and hitches me a bit closer to him. He’s breathing his miraculously deep, slow breaths again, and his heart rate is nearly normal. His hand shifts back to my hair and strokes it lazily. I know he’s drifted off again, when his hand goes limp against my scalp. Still soothing, though. That warm little weight. Makes me sleepy. Sleepy. Just a few minutes ago, I was edging into a panic. John’s got rather a talent for that, though. Turning me the right way round.

Somehow he puts me right every time. Even when he is not quite right himself.


	297. Chapter 297

Wake with the conviction that John's eyes are on me. My face is pressed into my pillow, but I know that when I open my eyes and look round, he'll be watching me. He is. John's eyes and his lopsided smile are on me, and I give myself several moments to enjoy the sensation before kissing him and bidding him good morning.

"Morning, love," John says and clears his throat. His voice is a bit rough (lovely). I want to tuck myself against him, but he’s looking right into my face, and I don’t like to look away.  


“Sleep well?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He nods, no flicker of doubt on his face. “Yeah, fine. You?”

I consider the question long enough that it doesn’t really matter what my reply is. The pause is the answer. “Not bad,” I say.

John smiles sympathetically and kisses me. Lovely. He smells normal now. Put one hand on his shoulder when he begins to draw back. Still feel anxious to keep him close (keep telling myself he’s fine, really)(can’t stop thinking of what he said about his fated limp). He smiles again, but it turns into a grimace.

“Sorry love,” he says. “We’re going to have to get up. Or I am anyway. I need to get some food in me, so I can take my pain medication.” In answer, I sit up and kick off the blankets. John grins. “All right then. Company. Good.”

“Of course, John.” John leans forward and squeezes my shoulder. Drops a little kiss onto the back of my neck. Lovely. Then he begins gingerly to get out of bed. I try not to watch. Since his injury, he stops what he’s doing when he sees me watching (difficult not to watch John do something). Get up and go to the wardrobe, pull my best dressing gown on and toss his onto the bed.

“Think I’ll get dressed, actually,” John says.

“All right.” Open the wardrobe again and start to pull out clothes.

“I’ll choose my own clothes, thanks.”

“Right,” I say. “What do you want to wear?” John does not answer. He’s still not quite out of bed. One of his crutches has slipped down from where be propped them between the bed and the night table and is lying flat on the floor. He’s trying to hook it with the other. Seems to take an age. He’s absorbed enough (or frustrated enough) that he doesn’t notice me watching. “John, do you-”

“Fine,” he says, finally lifting the crutch up to where he can reach it. He pushes himself onto the crutches and crosses to the wardrobe to collect his clothes. He has to return to the bed to dress himself, since he can’t do it easily while balanced on one leg. He gets on fine until he’s trying to pull on his trousers. The leg gets caught on his cast. He huffs irritably, pulling at his trousers and shifting his hips forward until he’s right at the edge of the bed. The angle is making me anxious. He’s going to fall off. Fidget with the sash of my dressing gown until I can’t resist coming and kneeling in front of him. I tug hard on his trouser leg until his foot pops out. John scowls.

I take his annoyance for pain, at first (likely one feeds the other), “Sorry. Am I hurting you?”

“I can put my own trousers on, Sherlock!”

“You looked like you were having a bit of trouble.”

“I nearly had it!”

“You were about to slip off the bed.”

“No, I wasn’t.” John nudges me with one of his crutches and begins to push himself up. “Move, please. You’re blocking me.” I shuffle aside without answering. John tucks in his shirt and fastens his trousers before leaving the room without a glance at me. I’m a bit stung, but I follow him anyway. John starts the coffee maker and glares at me when I get the mugs down, so I sit down at the kitchen table, fold my hands in front of me, and twiddle my thumbs pointedly. He cracks a grin at that. I get up and get the milk out, and when I turn to John to offer it to him, he’s frowning again. He pours himself a cup of coffee, tucks an apple from the bowl on the worktop and his bottle of pain meds into his pocket, then realises he can’t manage the crutches and the coffee at once.

“Shall I-”

“No. Thanks.” John leaves his coffee on the worktop and makes for the sitting room. I follow him, with his coffee in my hand (add a splash of milk on my way out of the room).

John takes his chair. I set his coffee on the mantel and drag his footstool from where he left it near the sofa last night. John props his foot on it reluctantly and immediately finds the paper next to his chair and disappears behind it. I take my own chair and watch the back of the paper silently. God, I want him to look at me. Nothing unusual in that. Ordinarily, I would take the paper away from him and push myself onto his lap, wrap my arms round his neck, press my face against his shoulder. Can’t think how he’d respond to that at the moment. I hate that notion.

“Have I offended you, John?” I ask quietly.

“No.” But he does not lower the paper.

“I only want to-”

“Yes, I know.” His tone is a bit softer. I wait for him to continue. “I’m not useless, Sherlock.” He sounds stiff and angry again.

“Of course not.”

“Then stop coddling me.”

Trying to think of a way to tell him not to be stupid without using the word ‘stupid.’ “We look after each other. When we need it.”

John lowers the paper, and it’s a relief to look into his face. His eyes are downcast and there’s a deep crease between his eyebrows. “Right,” he says slowly. Want to tell him to spit it out already so that we can get on with putting it right. Clasp my hands under my chin, and his mouth begins to pull right, just a bit. “I really hate this,” he says in a low voice, as if it’s a horrible secret. “Being injured, I mean.”

“I know,” I say. “I always hate it, too.”

John shakes his head. “What will we do, if I don’t get better properly?”

“You will,” I say. Still don’t understand why he’s so fixated on that. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“Mightn’t,” John clears his throat. “Mightn’t I actually be destined to limp? I mean, pah destiny but. What if I can’t quite dash about with you anymore like I did do? Won’t you get a bit. Bored?”

Swallow a little thrill of anger at those words, then drop to my knees in front of his chair to meet his lowered eyes, “John.”

I wait until he says, “Yes?”

“John, I don’t.” I pause to consider my words. Reach for his hand, and he takes mine eagerly. Heartening. “I’m not married to my work, John.” He nods, so I continue. “John, wherever you are, there I’ll be. I don’t see why you shouldn’t be back to normal in a few months, but if we do need to adjust, we can adjust.” Here’s the flicker of doubt. I knew to expect it, but it hurts all the same. “John,” I press. “Were you dashing about when I met you?”

“No,” he says. He can see where I’m going with this. The creases in his forehead are smoothing a bit.

“But I wanted you very badly, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” John’s almost smiling, so I allow myself to roll my eyes at this.

“Obviously! Didn’t know half what I’d found, did I? But still I knew that I wanted you. Because you were kind to me. Kind and generous and loyal and brave and steady and-” I pause and sigh. “We are partners, John. What we do, we do together. If I had to carry you to cases on my back, I would do, and you wouldn’t be a burden in the slightest. You fit me; you understand me. I am more myself with you, John, and I mean to drag you with me everywhere I go for the rest of my life. You are my partner and my match, with or without the limp.”

To my satisfaction, John nods through most of my speech, and when I’ve finished, he says at once, “Sorry love.”

Reach up and wrap my arms round his neck. He parts his knees to accommodate me and strokes my hair. Lovely. “I am for you, John,” I tell him. Not terribly surprised to find my voice is a bit rough.

“Yes, love,” he says. “Matched set.”


	298. Chapter 298

"So what happened to you then?"  
"Er, fractured my ankle."  
"Right. Karate kicking baddies?"  
"Ha, no. Fucking icy patch on the front stairs."  
"Oof sorry. Bad luck, John."  
"Yeah, well. I'll be all right in a bit. Few months."  
"Rather ruins Christmas, though, doesn't it?"  
"Ha, well no snow angels and ice skating for me. But nah, it'll still be nice."  
"Do you two do Christmas?"  
"Now how can you ask that, when you have been in attendance at one of our fabulous Christmas parties, Molly?"  
"Oooh damn. I'd nearly managed to forget that night."  
"Right. Sorry. Ha. That wasn't so good for anybody, was it? Though you have to admit, the decorations were nice."  
"Yes, you have lovely taste in fairy lights."  
"Sherlock does, actually."  
"Ha, Sherlock? Really?"  
"Yeah, he does like some normal things. Not just murder-y things."  
"Sherlock likes Christmas, then?"  
"Well. He likes twinkly things."  
"Ha! I'm going to tell him you said that!"  
"No, Molly! God no, he'd break my other leg."  
"Oh, while we're on the subject, shall I sign your cast?"  
"All right. Nothing rude, mind."  
"Nothing rude? Drat. I was going to put cock cock cock cock cock. Suppose I'll just sign my name, instead."

...

Eggs and what else?  
-SH 

I told you to write it down. 

 

I told *you* to write it down.  
-SH 

 

I told *you* I didn’t have a pen. 

 

Oh. I suppose I wasn’t listening.  
-SH 

Yeah I could tell. Eggs, milk, beans, porridge, loo rolls, bread, marmalade, oh and something to mull and something to mull it with. 

Something to mull? Like a riddle? I hate riddles.  
-SH 

 

Ha, no! One of those little packets of mulling spices and some wine. 

 

Mulling spices?  
-SH 

 

Don’t Holmses mull things?

 

Historically Holmses mull ideas and not beverages. But I’m flexible on your account.  
-SH

Oooer

Childish. Where do I find all these mullers and mullings in this illogical maze?  
-SH 

 

Ask an attendant. 

 

Fine, useless. See you shortly.  
-SH 

Can hardly wait, lovely. 

...

“What’s this?”  
“What’s what, John?”  
“Did you get mistletoe?”  
“No!”  
“Well I’ve just found this in the bag. If you didn’t get it, how did it get there? Elves?”  
“They were giving it away at the till. I thought it was sage.”  
“Ha. Liar.”  
“By the way, what are we meant to infer from the notion of lovers exchanging caresses under a toxic parasite?”  
“Oh, Sherlock. Have you just called me your lover?”  
“Tedious. Insolent.”  
“Ha, you’re a good sport, love. Give us a kiss...mmm there we are. Where shall we hang it?”  
“Don’t care. Silly tradition.”  
“Ha, right, right. Well, why don’t you hang it up, and I’ll get to work on shopping stowing and mulling.”  
“You are certainly eager to mull, John. I don’t think I’ve seen this side of you before.”  
“Ha, I suppose I’m trying to cheer myself up a bit. Fancied indulging some nostalgia.”  
“Does your nostalgia cheer you?”  
“Sometimes. It does in this case.”  
“Tell me what else you are nostalgic for, my John.”  
“Well it’s more a feeling than a particular, er, thing. You know how around Christmas everybody’s cheery just because everybody else is cheery?”  
“No.”  
“Well, when you’re really small, it’s more to do with presents and things, but as adults, we all just sort of collectively decide to be be cheery for a month. And to have fun with people who usually really annoy us. And we call it Christmas spirit.”  
“You sound like a Muppet. Oh what are you grinning at, John?"  
"Well, first of all, you just acknowledged the existence of the Muppets. And also you're being the fun kind of stroppy, and I love that."  
"Patronising. And I'm not stroppy!"  
"Ha, mm yeah, that's just what I mean. Say, 'bah humbug.'"  
"Never."

...

"So lovely."  
"So John."  
"You've been a good boy this year."  
"Have I? That doesn't sound like me. Perhaps you're conflating me with some other detective."  
"No, no. You're the best detective I know of."  
"Mmmm yes, I know, but that's quite a different proposition from being a good boy, isn't it?"  
"Ah, well we'll call it close enough. Christmas spirit, mm?"  
"Indeed."  
"So. What do you want for Christmas, then?"  
"Ah, John, what I want most of all is for no one to suggest that I put on any funny hats or headgear of any kind."  
"Oof. Tall order."  
"I know. Season of miracles, though.”  
“All right, I shall have a word with Father Christmas.”

...

"John? Where’ve you gone? All right? Do you need me to slow down? John? Oh there you are. What’s that? When did you make tha-gaaah! John!"  
"I just saw a nice little snow drift over there, and I immediately thought how empty and meaningless my life would be until I hit Sherlock Holmes in the face with a snowball."  
"Pah! Thh! Mmf. Well. Feeling fulfilled?"  
"More than I ever thought I could be."  
"Good. Good. Glad to hear it. Of course you know this means war."  
"I was hoping you'd say that."


	299. Chapter 299

Sherlock didn't plaster me with snowballs, as I'd expected him to. He would have done, if I hadn't been rather unsteady on my feet at the moment. He smiled sweetly, brushed a kiss on me and walked on, considerably slower than usual. I had to tell him that it was hard to keep my balance on the crutches while going so slowly. If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have found it all very concerning. I was a bit concerned, at first. But he didn't return fire until three days later, at which point, I'd mostly forgotten about his declaration.

Which, naturally, was his exact intent.

I was sat at the kitchen table, reading the paper after breakfast and rather absorbed in it.

I hardly noticed when Sherlock said, "Shall I freshen your coffee, John?" I must have nodded because he leaned over me, took my mug and turned away for a moment, then placed it in front of me. "There you are."

"Thanks love," I said, lifting the mug for a sip. A very slushy, coffee-smelling snowball plopped onto my face when I tipped the mug to my lips. I sat sputtering, dripping, and speechless. Sherlock came and dropped a hand heavily on my shoulder.

I looked up at him, and he was grinning shamelessly. “Whoops,” he said. “Careful, now. You’ve spilled.” And he wiped my face with a tea towel and kissed me on the cheek.

...

“This isn’t over, you know.”  
“Mmmm, I love it when you say that. Say it again.”  
“This isn’t over, Sherlock.”  
“Good.”  
“You’ll be eating your words soon enough.”  
“I hope so.”

...

Hullo love,

You made a very interesting sound a bit earlier on this evening. It started sort gravelly and ended quite high-pitched. I’m very eager to see if I can help you to replicated it at some point in the near future. Perhaps next time, I can manage it in view of your face. May take a bit of experimenting. Leave it to you to arouse my spirit of scientific inquiry.

Yours,  
John

...

“So my John.”  
“My Sherlock.”  
“I like it when you say that to me.”  
“Do you?”  
“I love it when you address me as yours.”  
“I must remember that.”  
“Do.”  
“You were saying?”  
“I was asking you what you’d like for a gift.”  
“Oh, ha. Hadn’t thought. Erm socks.”  
“Socks?”  
“Yes. Knobbly ones.”  
“Knobbly ones.”  
“Yes. Knobbly. And fair isle.”  
“Please, John.”  
“With reindeer on.”  
“Have mercy.”  
“This is my wish. Make it so.”  
“Pervert.”  
“It’s to your advantage.”  
“True.”


	300. Chapter 300

Fro Christmas!

Hello Friends! i need your help to make a young lad's dream come true. Shercolk doesnt want to ewwar any festive headgear this Chrismast season. He doesn't even wantto be asked. It is his only wish. If you lot could all just not make an y hat sguesstions until after 1 Jannnuraary, we'd noth both be enternally grateful. As compensation for your coperation, you maty direct all your hat suggestions to me. I'll wear every hat in the world and light up atnlers all ovre my body. Just don't ask Sherlock. Thank you! Merry Christmas!

 

Comments (26)

Sherlock Holmes  
How touching of you to intercede on my behalf, John. How filled with Christmas spirit. 

 

John Watson  
Noooo Sherlcok! Shhh its a surprirse! Don't look!

 

Sherlock Holmes  
Forgive me for saying so, John, but I'm finding your giggling rather conspicuous. 

 

John Watson  
I dont jgiiggle!

 

Molly Hooper  
Wow, that is quite impressive. Can I come round? I love drunk John!

 

John Watson  
i think the shtfi key is messing me up. i don't goin g to usse it any more.

 

John Watson  
Boll ocks

 

Sherlock Holmes  
As amusing as drunk John is, I’m going to keep him to myself this evening. He’s going to have a cup of tea in a moment, and then he’s going to bed. Perhaps another time, Molly. 

 

Molly Hooper  
Yeah, he’s really really gone. He didn’t drink with his pain meds, did he?

 

Sherlock Holmes  
No, of course not. He’s not an idiot. He’s finished with the prescription ones anyway. He was feeling very festive today, and I don’t care for mulled wine. So he helpfully finished it all. 

 

John Watson  
Hang 

 

John Watson  
Woops

 

John Watson  
Hang ong you lot allytyping so fast. Just calm downand leat mean swer. I can do it, Sherlcok! 

 

John Watson   
Not goign to bed! Come round, molly! 

 

John Watson   
We canp lay kErplunk! Only we don’t ha ve Kerplunk. Do you? Brign it wiht you. 

 

Sherlock Holmes  
Drink your tea, John. 

 

John Watson  
Hot! 

 

Bill Murray  
Wow, mate. I haven’t seen you like this in years. Having fun?

 

John Watson  
Hey! Bill! Merry Chritsmas Bi ll!

 

Bill Murray  
Merry Christmas, John!

 

Sherlock Holmes  
He’s not as bad as he seems. His typing only deteriorates quickly when he drinks, and it is already quite poor. 

 

John Watson  
I type better than you shoot, clever boots. Look. Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh?! Perfetc. 

 

John Watson  
Dam ni t!

 

Sherlock Holmes  
Sadly, that took about ten minutes. Well, bedtime for blogger. Enjoy this while you can. John will likely delete it in the morning. 

 

Molly Hooper  
Good night, John! Good night, Sherlock! 

 

John Watson  
Nihgt Molly! Don’t forge t Kerpulk!


	301. Chapter 301

“Sherlock, why’d you let me pour a vat of wine down my throat?” I was laid out on the sofa with my arm over my face. Sherlock was sitting at the end of the sofa, propping a stack of cushions under my broken ankle. He took a moment to respond, because he was trying not to laugh.

His voice quivered slightly when he did answer. “There, there,” he said, patting my thigh.

“Shut up. Look after me better. I’m an idiot, remember?”

“A genius idiot. Anyway, you were having such a good time, it seemed a pity to stop you. I hated to dampen your fun,” here he paused, choosing his words. “You were very affectionate.”

I lowered my arm from my eyes, and pushed myself up slightly to look at him. “Very affectionate?” He nodded, smirking. “Oh god. What did I do?”

Sherlock patted my thigh again, his smirk broadening. “Let’s see how long it takes you to remember.”

“Sherlock,” it came out somewhere between a groan and a whine. “I’m a double invalid. Broken ankle and ferocious hangover. Don’t test my temper. It’s brittle. I know I can’t do anything to you at the moment, but I can glare witheringly. Got a knack for that. And I’ll think of some very sharp remarks, once my head stops pounding.” I raised my arm back over my eyes, and I felt Sherlock slide up the sofa toward me.

He pecked me on the lips before answering, “You made a blog post. I’ve already deleted it. It was a bit. Silly.” I kept my arm over my eyes (and my eyes shut) but I could hear the grin in his voice at the next bit. “I did take a screenshot of it, though. You may have a look if you like. I set it as the desktop background on your laptop. And on my laptop.”

I groaned again (it hurt), “Is it really, really horrible?”

Sherlock kissed me. “Painfully charming.”

“That bad, eh?”

“I’m not doing you justice.”

“God. Did anyone else see?”

“Er, Molly. And your old nurse. Bill Murray. They commented.”

“Oh lord. I should not be allowed a laptop.”

Sherlock squeezed my free hand, sympathetically. “Oh, it was fine. Your friends are very fond of you. Very ready to enjoy you. Anyway. Can I get you something to drink? Tea?”

“That’d be lovely, thanks.” Sherlock gave me a little pat on the shoulder and got up. I grabbed a blanket from the back of the sofa and threw it over myself, then settled in a little further down and covered my eyes again. Sherlock wasn’t as noisy as he generally is about putting the kettle on. Still he made a pleasant little racket, and I tried to guess what each sound meant. Filling the kettle, mug from the cabinet, tea cannister across the worktop, milk from the fridge, spoon from the drawer. Then he seemed to step into the bedroom. I heard the door slide open, and there was no bustle in the kitchen for a few moments.

Sherlock returned just a bit later and squeezed next to me on the sofa. “Here’s your tea,” he said.

“Thanks, love,” I held out my hand to take the mug.

Sherlock didn’t put the mug in my hand. I reckoned he was waiting until I was paying attention properly, so I uncovered my eyes, and laughed in surprise when I saw him.

Sherlock was sitting with the mug held between both hands, wearing one of my fair isle jumpers, under his dressing gown.

“John,” he said gravely, “I’ve a proposition.”

“Well, I’m sure to agree to it,” I said, grinning. “You know how to get on my good side.”

Sherlock smiled and looked down at his sleeve, as if he’d just realised what he’d got on. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he said. “It’s itchy.”

“And you’re braving it to cheer me. How touching.”

Sherlock grinned, “I had a proposition.”

“Oh that’s right. Go on, then.”

“I thought you might like to have a few people round ours, perhaps on Christmas Eve?”

“Like a Christmas party? You’re modeling your proposed attire, then? Hoping to borrow my jumper?”

“Never mind, proposition retracted!” Sherlock got up, and I caught him by the sash of his dressing gown. He turned to me, eyebrows raised.

“Get back here, you. Retraction denied.”

“You can’t deny my retraction. It’s done. It’s been retracted. It’s back up in.”

“Up in? Goodness. And where is up in, exactly?”

Sherlock sat down on the sofa again and pushed my mug into my hands. He watched me take a sip before he answered. “The precise location of up in is classified, but I assure you, it is well out of sight.” He raised a hand, as if to stroke my hair, then dropped it into his lap. He knows I don’t much like being petted. I shifted my mug to my right hand and wrapped my left arm around his waist, so I could pull him closer. Sherlock smiled.

“You’re throwing me a Christmas party, and that’s final. Got it?”

His smile broadened. “Drink your tea, John.”

 


	302. Chapter 302

“I’m throwing a Christmas party for John. It’ll be Christmas Eve, probably late afternoon. Can you come, or will you be with Karen’s family?”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Yes, Harry. Sherlock, obviously.”  
“Most people say hello and introduce themselves and maybe chat about the weather a bit at the beginning of a phone conversation.”  
“The habits of ‘most people’ are very little to do with me.”  
“Christ. I forgot how exhausting you are.”  
“Likewise. Can you come or not?”  
“You might have asked further than a week in advance.”  
“So that’s a no, then.”  
“I’m with-hang on. How do you know about Karen?”  
“I pay attention.”  
“Right. That’s not creepy at all.”  
“Sarcasm.”  
“Yeah, I picked up on my own sarcasm, funnily enough.”  
“If you’re worried he won’t want to see you, he does.”  
“Wow, you’re not one to beat around the bush, are you?”  
“Nor are you. You should come.”  
“Right, well. Like I said, I’m with Karen’s family. Actually, I didn’t say that. You did. Creep.”  
“I sense a digression in the offing.”  
“I sent a gift.”  
“I know.”  
“Of course you do.”  
“I mean it’s already arrived.”  
“Oh. Good.”  
“Still. He’ll want to see you. You should visit him.”  
“You don’t know as much as you think you know.”  
“Another attempt at a digression. How transparent. I’ve got a sibling as well, you know. I know bait when I see it.”  
“Well what’s it got to do with you, anyway?”  
“Anything to do with John is to do with me. I know you think I spend my time devising new ways for us to injure ourselves, but I do actually look after my husband, Harry Watson.”  
“Fine then!”  
“Fine, you’ll come?”  
“No, I’ve said. I can’t make it. But I’ll visit. Some time.”  
“Do. John is forgiving to a fault, Harry.”  
“You might be a special case.”  
“I’m absolutely a special case. But you’re rather a special case yourself. You’re his sister. Anyway, your sobriety is going well, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to tell him about that?”  
“How did you-”  
“I pay attention.”

…

“So, lovely.”  
“Mmm?”  
“Shall we get you your own jumper for the party? Or will you borrow one of mine?”  
“Bite your tongue, John Watson!”  
“Make me.”  
“I have done before, and I will do again.”  
“Ha yeah, I expect you will.”  
“Depend on it, John.”

...

“John Hamish Watson!”  
“Sherlock Holmes!”  
“What do you think I’ve just found in my pocket?”  
“Hands?”  
“No!”  
“String? Or nothing.”  
“A snowball!”  
“Ha. That was my next guess. See, you didn’t say which pocket you’d checked.”  
“Just how did you get a snowball into my coat pocket without me spotting you?”  
“Mmm witchcraft. Obviously.”  
“You know what that gets you around here.”  
“I was hoping you’d say that.”

...

"Ha, erm no. Don't think so."  
"No?! Why not?!"  
"You know why not."  
"Show a little appreciation."  
"Brush your teeth first."  
"Hmph. You'd never catch me saying that to you."  
"No, but you put all sorts of questionable things in your mouth."  
"Ha, I'd hardly call you a questionable thing, John. Anyway, you taste nice."  
"I'll take your word for it."  
"Hmph. This is how you repay my solicitousness. I like that."  
"Oh go on, then."  
"...See? Nice."  
"Ergh. Pretty much what I was expecting."  
"Well fortunately for you, I like it."  
"Ha yes, love. Very fortunate. Go and brush your teeth, and I'll kiss you properly."  
"Fine. Ingrate."  
"I don't know how you can say that when you've got a bit of my gratitude on your chin, still."  
"Oh we call that gratitude, do we?"  
"Among other things."  
"Seems an inconvenient way to express it. Some one hands you a pen, and...that's the result."  
"Haaaaaaaaa shut up."  
"Never."


	303. Chapter 303

“Sherlock!”  
“Yes?”  
“They never lie on me both at once like that! You’ve frightened them away.”  
“I’m not frightening.”  
“Jostled them away then.”  
“Pet me for consolation.”  
“You did it on purpose.”  
“Pet me, John. You’ll like it.”  
“You mean you’ll like it.”  
“It’s a fortunate overlap in our areas of interest.”

...

Where do baubles come from?  
-SH 

 

The North Pole.  
~Molly~  


Useless.  
-SH

 

Why are you asking me about baubles?  
~Molly~

 

We’re doing a tree for the party. Aren’t baubles traditional?  
-SH 

 

You were serious about the party?  
~Molly~

 

You think I would pretend to invite you to a Christmas party?  
-SH 

 

I’m spending Christmas Eve with my niece. My horrible brother Reggie has a work do.  
~Molly~

 

That’s not the only reason why, I mean! She’s lovely.  
~Molly~

 

How old is she?  
-SH 

 

Five.  
~Molly~

 

Does she squawk?  
-SH 

 

When prodded, I suppose.  
~Molly~

 

I think I can prevent that. Bring her with you. Please.  
-SH 

 

Really?  
~Molly~

 

Yes, of course.  
-SH 

 

You’re sure you don’t mind?  
~Molly~

 

You’re a key part of my guestlist, Molly.  
-SH 

 

How many people have you got?  
~Molly~

 

Three.  
-SH 

 

Mrs Hudson and Greg and me, then?  
~Molly~

 

How do you know his first name?  
-SH

 

You’re joking, right?  
~Molly~

 

Are you just planning to respond that way to everything I say to you from now on?  
-SH 

...

“Come on, love. Bedtime. Leave that. It’ll keep for morning.”  
“Nearly done. Anyway, I’m a grown man. I don’t have a bedtime.”  
“You always say, ‘nearly done’ but I think you must be speaking relative to the age of the universe. And you do have a bedtime when you’re ill.”  
“I’m not ill!”  
“Then explain the sneeze.”  
“No.”  
“You’re ill. That was the most impressive sneeze I’ve ever heard.”  
“However impressive it was, it was only a single sneeze.”  
“It was a harbinger of doom. It gave me tinitus.”  
“How you exaggerate. One swallow doesn’t make a summer, John.”  
“Sorry, what? One what doesn’t what?”  
“It’s an expression.”  
“Right. Well. Swallows aside. Bedtime. Come on, now.”  
“If you’re going to frog march me off to bed, are you also going to help me into my jimjams and read me a story?”  
“You don’t actually wear jimjams to bed.”  
“I would, if you were ever considerate enough to help me into them.”  
“You’re always trying to get me to undress you.”  
“I don’t understand the point of your token efforts at resistance.”  
“Well, I don’t understand the point of your token efforts at resistance when I’m trying to take you to bed with me. The sheets’ll be cold. Come and wrap round me and keep me warm.”  
“Ah, your true motive emerges.”  
“Ha, yes. Come on, you lanky storage heater. I want you curled up next to me and snotting on me in your sleep inside of a quarter of an hour.”  
“Mmm you make me sound so charming, John.”  
“Mmm, you really are, love.”


	304. Chapter 304

By the appointed time on the day of our party, Sherlock was still decking the halls with (relatively) remarkable holly jollyness. We’d gone to get the tree earlier that day. The sight of him with a Christmas tree slung over his shoulder, singing Good King Wenceslas at the top of his voice, his breath streaming out in front of him will stay with me to my dying day. I even tried to wind him up by telling him he looked like a Christmas card. I expected an absolutely filthy look in reply, but he only bounced his eyebrows and inclined his head toward me without pausing in his singing.

I was arranging the food while he decorated. We’d had a really long argument the night before, when I asked him to pop down and borrow a punchbowl from Mrs Hudson. Finally I pointed out that we had no time to find and buy an alternative (he refused to be swayed by my assertion that none of our friends were going to poison us), and he stalked off to find the little jingly hat I’d got for the skull. I took that as a concession. He tutted anyway when he saw me making punch in it.

“No, you don’t, “ I told him. “No sulking over the punch bowl. And no tampering with it either. You’ll not poison all our friends on Christmas just to prove a point.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he sniffed. “And you wouldn’t need to worry about it, if you’d had the foresight to procure a beverage dispenser with a lid.”

“Hush, you. It’s not too late for the naughty list, you know.”

Sherlock laughed and bounced an eyebrow at me, “Oh John, if I’m not on the naughty list yet, I doubt I’ve time to land myself there. I’m not likely to manage anything that compares unfavourably with my whole year’s misdeeds.”

“Is that a challenge?” I said, grinning. I set down my spoon and came into the sitting room.

“Did it sound like one?” Sherlock was grinning back at me, that eyebrow still cocked.

“Oh god,” Molly said through the door. “Should we come back later?” Sherlock swallowed his giggles and answered the door, managing to only smile rather immoderately. “You two behaving yourselves in here?” she asked. Molly was bright-eyed from the wind and her nose was a bit pink. It made her look very excited. As she came in, she gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. He bent to accommodate the gesture, then returned it.

“I make it a point never to behave myself,” he said. “Hullo, who’s this?” he said, turning his attention to the small, ginger, bespectacled person who’d entered the flat holding Molly’s hand. She was standing in the doorway, looking around the flat. Her gaze landed on the red nose Sherlock had fixed to the bison skull on the wall.

“You’ll be Neal, then,” I said, crutching my way to Molly and the little girl. “Nice to finally meet you. Somehow I thought you’d be taller.”

The little girl looked up at Molly anxiously, “Auntie, what’s wrong with him?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Molly gamely choked back laughter and politely pretended to misunderstand the question, “He’s broken his leg, Mae. Shhh. That’s not a nice way to ask.”

“He thinks he’s funny,” Sherlock said, addressing Mae. “The poor man. He’s called John Watson, by the way. I’m Sherlock Holmes.” He leaned in slightly to offer his hand to shake, and Mae shook it, still looking at me suspiciously. “Yes, I know,” Sherlock continued. “Shifty, isn’t he? He’s harmless, really. Well,” he shot a smirk at me. “Mostly harmless.”

“Mae Hooper,” Mae said gravely.

“Pleasure to meet you,” answered Sherlock. He glanced at me again. “Well, erm. I was just,” he gestured to the tree. “Trimming. John’s got sweets and things in the kitchen, if you want to…” Sherlock trailed off and began to sidle toward the tree. “And going from the smell, Mrs Hudson will be bringing mince pies up the back stairs in about twenty minutes.”

Sherlock turned his back on us, clearly expecting Mae to be tempted by the sweets. But apparently, she’d found me too alarming or Sherlock too fascinating. “I’ll trim, too,” she said and held out toward Molly the carrier bag of parcels she’d been carrying as imperiously as Sherlock himself might have done.

Molly collected the bag from her, then stepped back. “Well this could be fun,” she said to me in an undertone after she’d given me a (rather awkward one-armed on her part and one-legged on mine) hug and a kiss.

“Bound to be,” I whispered back. “Little girls love him. Not sure why.”

“He’s dreamy,” she whispered. We both sort of giggled, and Sherlock whipped round to glare at us, nearly stumbling over Mae in the process.

“Oh hullo,” he said, distracted from his pique by the near-mishap. “Not much of a one for sweets, then?”

“I want to help with the tree,” Mae replied, looking hard at the box of decorations sitting on the side table.

Sherlock nodded and waved his hand toward it. “Help yourself,” he said. Mae plucked a very large pink bauble from the box, but stood watching Sherlock try to find the absolute ideal spot to hang the miniature nutcracker he was holding (Sherlock-like, he would not be dissuaded from the notion that there was a proper way trim a tree and that the proper way was as scientifically and symmetrically as possible). He was making rather a meal of appointing a spot. His head was cocked, a finger pressed to his lips, and now and again, he’d raise the figure, then lower it very slowly.

“There,” Mae said, pointing. “Near the little horse.”

“Oh,” Sherlock peered at the spot. “Yes, you’re right.” He hung the nutcracker near the little horse and nodded with satisfaction.

“I’m good at this,” Mae said. “The bits I can reach, anyway. It’s one of my best things.”

“Is it?” Sherlock said, selecting a turtle dove from the box of decorations. “What are the others?”

Mae hung her pink bauble near a gold snowflake before she answered, ticking each item off on her fingers as she listed it. “Whistling, I know lots of different kinds of butterflies, I can get dogs to come up to me, and I can read now.”

Sherlock nodded, “Things get much more interesting after you learn to read,” he said. “Have you got an encyclopaedia at your house?”

Mae frowned thoughtfully, as if considering the question, but in reply she said, “You look like a fairy.”

Here Molly and I got the giggles again, and Sherlock shook his head at us very solemnly. “Why do you say that?” he asked Mae.

She wiggled her fingers at his face. “You’re all over fairy dust,” she said.

“Am I?”

“Yes, it’s on your face and in your hair and on your hands.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands in surprise, which were indeed covered in pink and gold and silver glitter from the baubles he’d been handling. “It’s from the decorations,” he said.

Mae tossed her hair, “That doesn’t mean it’s not fairy dust.”

“She’s got you there, love,” I said. “Who knows how it got onto the decorations? My money’s on fairies.” Molly had her hand firmly over her mouth, but I could hear little snorts escaping anyway. Mae raised her eyebrows at Sherlock and went to dig in the carrier bag she’d brought in. She fished out a cracker and held it up to Molly, who obediently pulled on it, her free hand still clapped to her mouth.

Molly won, but Mae took the crown out of the cracker anyway.

“You want a crown, if you’re a fairy,” she said, taking the crown to Sherlock and offering it to him. Sherlock accepted it silently and donned it, his eyes fixed on me, his expression mysterious. “Thank you?” she prompted and even through her hand, Molly’s snorts grew much more audible.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, still looking at me, his mouth twitching. “I was just going to say.”


	305. Chapter 305

“So John.”  
“So love.”  
“Foiled by a primary schooler. It seems Mae doesn’t read your blog.”  
“Very funny.”  
“My speciality.”  
“Ha, yes. Clearly. Anyway. I was clever enough to have a plan B.”  
“Oh, a plan B, mm?”  
“Yep, plan B.”  
“Going to let me in on it?”  
“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s not Christmas yet.”  
“Tease.”  
“Mmmm, my speciality, love.”  
“Indeed.”

...

Oi! Rude!

 

What? I’m nowhere near you.   
~Molly~

 

Kerplunk? Very funny. 

 

Yes, I thought so.   
~Molly~

 

Smart arse. 

 

You asked me to bring it over, John.   
~Molly~

 

Merry Christmas, smart arse. 

 

Merry Christmas, John!  
~Molly~

…

 

“That’s beautiful.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“Really, really beautiful.”  
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”  
“Did you compose it?”  
“Just improvising, actually.”  
“It’s so lovely. It makes me think of firelight.”  
“Does it? It’s meant to.”  
“It’s perfect. I love it.”  
“You make me blush, John.”  
“Everything has been so wonderful, lovely. I know you’ve been working at all this specially for me, and it’s just been brilliant. Thank you.”  
“My pleasure, John.”  
“Do you want to do the gifts now? Let’s do the gifts.”

...

“It doesn’t fire, love, so no clever ideas.”  
“I bet I could get it to fire.”  
“But you won’t, will you? Rule seven, no shooting anything or anyone with the blunderbuss!”  
“Oh all right then. Rule seven. No need to go all exclamation mark-y But you know John, they don’t only take ammunition, which is perfect for an improviser like myself. A blunderbuss can be loaded with shot, broken glass, nails, lots of things. In a pinch, that is. Though shot is best for the weapon itself, of course.”  
“That sounds really dodgy, love.”  
“Well that’s pirates for you. This one is late 18th century, I think. French, so technically it’s-”  
“An espingole. Yes, I knew you’d go on like this, so I looked it up. And there’s a little book in the case. This is actually a replica. There are still real blunderbusses about, but they cost a few grand, and are so easily converted to a fireable state--by a qualified professional, but if there’s one thing that Sherlock Holmes considers himself to be, it’s a qualified professional, mmm?-- that I’d never have another night’s peaceful sleep, thinking of you rigging that thing to shoot broken glass. So. A very nice replica.”  
“It’s perfect, John. Very thoughtful. Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome, my lovely. I’m glad you like it.”  
“Your gift is much more domestic, I’m afraid.”  
“Oh, I rather like domestic. Our version anyway...oh. Goodness. How many…?”  
“Yes, John, if you were about to ask me if I’ve given you fifty-two pairs of knobbly, fair-isle, reindeer socks, the answer is yes.”  
“So you have. An embarrassment of riches.”  
“My John, your precise words to me were, ‘This is my wish. Make it so.’ How could I do anything less?”  
“Perhaps some one else could do less, but not you, my love.”  
“No, if my John wants socks, socks he shall have.”  
“Socks he’s got. Thank you, my lovely. I’ll be toasty all year round.”  
“That’s the idea. Happy Christmas, my John.”  
“Happy Christmas, my Sherlock.”


	306. Chapter 306

“You do realise this is a tiny bit humiliating.”

Lestrade and I are crouched next to a recently-deceased unfortunate, whom he believes to be a murder victim, and I’ve just pulled up John on my phone’s video chat program.

“Do shut up moaning, Lestrade,” I say, as I pull on my exam gloves. “Make yourself useful and hold John.” I shove my phone at Lestrade, and he accepts it grudgingly and holds it up to give John a decent vantage point on the corpse we’re about to examine.

“You want to be careful with your phrasing, Sherlock,” John’s voice is tinny and muffled coming through the speaker of my phone. “People will talk. This is how rumours start, you know. Though at least I’m not doing this naked, like certain mutual acquaintances have been known to do.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Shut up, John. You’re making me nostalgic, and I need to focus on Mr Workman,” I nod at the corpse before realising that John can’t see me; the phone is pointed away from my face. That’s annoying; John generally looks at me when I’m speaking to him, and I depend on his reading of my body language to communicate with him as much as what comes out of my mouth. This is a small enough matter--John is clever enough to extrapolate to whom the name refers--but it’s still annoying. Bloody ankle. Three more weeks until he’ll be able to-No. Digressing. Mr. Workman. Clear my throat and backtrack through my muddled train of thought. “Now, they said strangulation, but-”

“No marks on the throat. Yes, I see.”

I feel a little flash of indignation at being interrupted, which is quickly replaced by a desire to laugh. Ignore both. “I beg your pardon.”

“Right, Greg, could you hold me a bit closer? Ha, no. Detective Inspector, would you mind holding the phone a bit nearer to the victim, please?” I can hear the grin in John’s voice, though obviously I can’t see his face. There’s that desire to laugh again. I cough into my shoulder instead.

Lestrade huffs as he complies with John’s request. “Can we be adults, please?” he says. John and I ignore him. Though in this case, ignoring him is easily interpreted as obeying him. Irritating.

“Blue fingernails,” John mutters after a few moments’ silence. “But he couldn’t have been strangled. There are no marks of it. There’d be bruising, and there absolutely isn’t. Sherlock, do you see that swelling in his throat?”

I’d been waiting for him to remark on that. “I do.”

“Palpate it for me?”

I do so. “It’s hard. Very hard.”

“Foreign object?”

“Yes, I think so.” I know where he’s going with this, and I grin when a moment later, we say in unison, “Accidental suicide.” John laughs outright, and Lestrade huffs again.

“It was bad enough when just Sherlock was all giddy over this stuff,” he mutters.

“I presume you need an explanation of Doctor Watson’s conclusion, Lestrade,” I reply, fixing him with a very cool look. It seems to be slipping his mind (as it inexcusably often does) that he invited us to consult on this case and had been utterly lost before we arrived. Well. I arrived. I brought John with me, only in the barest sense of the notion.  
Lestrade sighs, sets my phone down on the floor next to his foot, and gets out his pad and pen.

“Hey!” John protests. “I’m not doing it from down here!”

I pluck off my left glove and pick up my phone, “Hullo John,” I say, looking down at his image. “Go ahead.”

His mouth begins to pull right. “You can do it, if you like. I expect you’ve noticed things I haven’t.”

“Can we just get on with it, if you two’ve had your fun?”

“Quietly compare the weeks of fruitless investigation you’d have spent not solving this case with the few moments John and I have spared to exchange a few pleasantries, and allow it to humble you while I tell you what happened, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock,” John says reprovingly.

“Mr Workman surprised a thief in the act of stealing a prized piece of his antique jewelry collection--a particular ring, I believe you said--and intervened, which led to a struggle, as your team was astute enough to piece together from the mess it left of the room.” I gesture with my free hand. “But the thief did not make off with the piece he came to steal, and the thief did not murder Mr Workman.”

“Right, well I’d worked out that I was wrong, when you told me that I was wrong. The ring is missing, though. How do you explain that? What did happen, then?”

“Mr Workman briefly had the upper hand in the struggle; he got the ring away from the thief, anyway. Sadly he thought that the best way to secure it would be to put it in his mouth. The idiot promptly swallowed and choked on it. And,” Turning my phone so that John can watch me do it, I open Mr Workman’s shirt to reveal bruises on his upper abdomen.

“Heimlich,” John mutters, and I smile.

“Yes, the thief even tried to save Mr Workman’s life. Well. I say ‘save his life.’ Tried to retrieve the ring is what I should say. Mr Workman and the ring proved beyond the thief’s reach, and, wisely realising that some detective inspector or other was bound to blame him for Mr Workman’s death, he fled. Anything to add, John?” I look down at my phone again.

John shakes his head, “Very thorough.”

“How’d you know he’d tried the Heimlich manoeuvre?” Lestrade asks (finally, a relevant remark)(perhaps he’s in the midst of some sort of dreary personal problem; he isn’t generally so snippy and useless)(John will ask later, no doubt).

I’m rather pleased with that little touch, actually. “Hunch, really. Good one, though. The thief didn’t only break in, take the piece, and leave quietly; he fought for it when he was discovered. He really wanted it. Why wouldn’t he try to retrieve it when it’d gone someplace less accessible?”

“Brilliant,” John says so quietly that I’m quite sure that only I heard him. Squeeze my phone instinctively, as if it were his hand and immediately feel ridiculous. Glance down at the screen of my phone. John smiles up at me, as though he knows what I’ve done. Though of course, he wouldn’t know. How could he?


	307. Chapter 307

I’m going to be up to my eyebrows in you very shortly, John.  
-SH

 

...Right. Bit presumptuous.

 

Metaphorically speaking.  
-SH

 

Oh!

 

Leave it to you to come in from the sordid angle, John.  
-SH

 

You aligned me with the sordid angle, so don’t pretend to be surprised when that’s the angle I come in.

 

I’m eager for your company, John.  
-SH

 

As I always am when we are brilliant together on a case.  
-SH

 

As I always am, full stop.  
-SH

 

You were fantastic.

 

Get your metaphor slicked up, John. I’m on my way. I’ll be with you very soon.  
-SH

 

If not sooner.

...

“Did you miss me, lovely?” I’ve just got home a few minutes ago, and John and I are sat on the sofa together. Well, he’s sat on the sofa, his injured leg propped on his footstool. I’m lying on my side next to him, my head pillowed in his lap. I’m leaving a wet spot on his trousers, I think, as I’ve just come out of the shower. I was wet through when I got in, and John asked me so prettily to have a hot shower and warm up. Wish he could have had it with me.

I was too eager to rejoin him to dry off properly. My dressing gown is stuck to my hip and my back where my skin is damp, and I can feel a coolish dripping down the back of my neck. John doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s stroking my hip. Firm, circular, purposeful strokes. Lovely. “Did you miss me, lovely?” John asks again, and I find I’ve been too absorbed in the pleasure of his hand on my hip and his warm lap under my cheek to reply promptly.

I nod, “Of course, John.”

“You were brilliant anyway, love. It comes off you, you know. Brilliance. Like the steam did when you came out of the shower.” He seems in the mood to go on a bit (lovely) so I remain silent. “I’m coming along next time, you know,” he says.

I hope I don’t stiffen. “We’ll see,” I say after too long a pause.

“You don’t get to we’ll see,” John says. “Only Mean John gets to we’ll see.”

“Mean John’s retired to live in the country and raise bees.”

“The country’s hell. It’s too green. There are cows about.”

“Mean John writes that it agrees with him tremendously, and he supposes he’ll never come back.”

“Sounds like a tosser.”

“Oh, I’m rather fond of him.”

John gives my backside a sharp, little pinch, and I jump. “Careful now. You’ll make me jealous,” his voice is warm and slow, as if he’s been drinking (he hasn’t). It makes me grin (in concert with the pinch, I quite liked that)

“Jealous, John? How could you ever be jealous? Am I not utterly devoted, the high priest of your cult, et cetera, et cetera?”

“Are you?” John shifts his hand to my hair and his fingertips on my scalp are beautifully distracting. I shut my eyes, and he gives my hair a little tug, which elicits a sort of squeak from me. John giggles, then clears his throat. “Are you?” he asks again.

“Clearly,” I say, butting my head back against his hand.

John lets his fingers go limp and chuckles when I rub my head against his hand, trying to get the friction I’d had before. “You haven’t burnt me any offerings lately. Now, I don’t want to go all lightning bolt-y, but you’re forcing my hand.”

“Are you threatening to smite me, John?”

“Threats are beneath me,” John says loftily, giving my hair another tug, sharper than before (grunt this time, a much more respectable sound than the squeak). “I only want to remind you what I’m capable of, Sherlock Holmes.”

Cock my head over my shoulder to look into his eyes. He’s got that look on his face. That look of naked admiration that he wears sometimes when I’m showing off for him as hard as ever I can. And apparently sometimes when I’m lying quietly beside him, reveling in the feel of his hands on me and his eyes on me and his mind firmly on me. It takes me a moment to remember what I was going to say (lost in his eyes, as the poetry goes)(ergh)(don’t care). “I assure you, John Watson. What you are capable of never strays from my mind.”


	308. Chapter 308

John is clutching me, and it’s brilliant. It’s nearly eleven in the morning, which is a rather unheard of lie in for us. He’s been somewhat easily tired since his injury (trying to hide it)(very bad)(he will have his rest, and he will recover beautifully)(I am determined to see to it, and I have it on good authority that I raise bloody-mindedness to an artform) and he insisted on sitting up last night to see in the new year together. It was rather a lovely evening, actually. Champagne, firelight, Chopin. All those sentimental trappings that are made tolerable (cogent and beautiful, rather) when executed at my John’s behest or for his pleasure.

John is clutching me, and it’s brilliant. His head is pillowed on my chest, and he’s been murmuring pretty things to me, since he woke and pulled me to him. It is not his usual way to instigate this sort of physical affection. He happily lavishes me with games, jokes, compliments, kisses, caresses, and sex (mmm), but nearly never does he suggest (or even nonverbally imply) that I ought to hold him. Perhaps because, in some way or other, I’m always suggesting that he hold me. Even before this particular iteration of our relationship, I found John always ready to answer to my (near unending) demands for support, affection, attention, admiration, hot drinks, hot meals, conversation, pens, steady hands, listening ears, firm remonstrances, and anything else he saw or suspected I needed. He told me before that he and I want different sorts of looking after. That the way in which I look after him is to make him feel lively. Lovely thought, that. Trust John to know just what to say to me, always. I can look after him, just in being myself. That somehow my need is what he needs. To be always necessary, always useful, always wanted. I can give him that, just in being who I am. Beautiful thought. Buoying and comforting. But it doesn’t make this tableau any less of a treasure (erecting a little shrine to it in my mind palace even as it unfolds).

John is clutching me, and it’s brilliant. I’ve got my arms about his shoulders, one hand resting lightly on his neck. I can feel his pulse (my metronome)(amused myself with a bit of an experiment earlier involving the shifting of my hips against him and changes in the quickness of his pulse). He drops damp (keeps licking his lips, he’s thirsty; I’ll get him a cup of tea in a bit), stubbly kisses on my collarbone from time to time. His eyes are half-shut against the mid-morning light. His smell is coming thickly off his scalp. That lovely, fleshy, lively smell with its little earthy hint of fir cones. We are passing our morning so much like we have passed so many of our other mornings. Only in this instance, our usual positions are reversed. Neither of us are making anything of it. Not aloud. We are both (I’m sure of it) appreciative of the significance of the moment. John’s natural reserve is such that he does not casually find himself in arrangements like this one. I should know better than any other person(!) (what a marvel! What a thing worth knowing!). By the time that I consciously decided to leave my brittle self in John’s custody indefinitely, I’d already given him so much of me. He’d been quietly accepting bits of me to look after for years. For him, it was a different matter. John was not seduced. John is not careless. John does not leap before he looks. John walked calmly to the edge of a precipice and jumped, eyes open, knowing that I would catch him before he crashed. John is clutching me, and it’s brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! The hiatus is over! I can hardly believe it. We made it! This is just a quick little verbal Sherlockian hug. Thanks for helping me through it, my dear, dear friends. I'm grateful for every last one of you. By the way, as a few of you have asked, I do not intend to allow any developments in the show itself affect the future of this piece. I'll be here for the foreseeable future. Thanks for all your wonderful support. I know I wouldn't still be writing without it! Happy New Year! Happy Sherlock Day! I love you!  
> Warmly,  
> apliddell


	309. Chapter 309

"Aaaah ah aha ah ow!"  
"Not good?"  
"Er, I appreciate the thought, but that was a bit, erm. Prod-y. You can't just jump right in; you've got to, er, warm me up first. So to speak."  
“It won’t hurt, if you relax. You’re all tense and tight. You’re like a wall.”  
“You try being prodded with those fingers and see how relaxed you feel.”  
“I’m not prodding!”  
“Ha, shout a bit more. I’m relaxing already.”  
“Ingrate. I try to be solicitous, and I’m met with snideness.”  
“Oh, go on then, love. Try again. Erm, but rub your hands together first. They’re freezing...yeah, that’s better...okay wait now. Not so hard...mm, that’s better. Mmm, good...okay you can do it a bit...yeah or even...mmm. See, you can do anything you put your mind...ahhhh, I’ll just shut up now.”  
“Mmm you may go on, if you like. It’s good for my ego.”  
“Your ego’s already...ahhhhmassive. Want me to do you after?”  
“Oh, do you suspect me of an ulterior motive?”  
“N-nooo, ‘sgood manners.”  
“Ha, thank you, John. I’m fine. I could see from across the room how hunched up and tight your shoulders were. It’s the crutches, I suppose.”  
“Mmahh, yeah, I think so.”  
“Feel better?”  
“Loads, thanks, lovely. Oooh up a...yes...oh perfect.”  
“Is your headache better?”  
“Yeah, it’s gone, actually. I didn’t even realise I had a headache until you mentioned it. How’d you know?”  
“Ha, please. If you take your shirt off, I’ll do the rest of your back as well.”  
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

...

“Molly, as your best friend, it falls to me to caution you against the bobble hat.”  
“Who says you’re my best friend?”  
“Molly, despite that crushing and abrupt disavowal, it remains my duty to caution you against the bobble hat.”  
“It was a Christmas present.”  
“Yes, I know. That’s no excuse.”  
“It’s my favourite colour.”  
“Still.”  
“And I like it!”  
“Are you sure? You look like a cat toy.”  
“Oh sod off. You hate all hats.”  
“No, I don’t.”  
“Name one hat you like.”  
“Mmm I’ve got a black, leather tricorn I’m quite fond of.”  
“That’s enough, thanks!”  
“How your imagination always runs away with you.”  
“One other hat that isn’t part of your weird, little games.”  
“I used to wear a trilby sometimes, when I was at university.”  
“Really? A trilby?”  
“Yes, a trilby.”  
“Just trying to picture it. I suppose you looked devastatingly dashing in it? Drove all the boys wild?”  
“Ha, something like that.”  
“You should bring it back. You’d look really good. You’ve got that annoying film star tall and handsome thing already, and it’d look nice with your suits and your coat.”  
“Your flattery is not distracting me from your bobbles, Molly Hooper.”  
“Well, that’s too bad because you’re going to have to live with the bobbles, Sherlock Holmes.”

...

“Ha, good thing I’m not a Freudian.”  
“What?”  
“Come on. Stroking your blunderbuss? Already sounds like a euphemism, doesn’t it? And quite a direct one, too.”  
“I’m not stroking anything.”  
“Right, well. ‘Stroking’ was me being polite. Rather fondling.”  
“I’m not fondling!”  
“Lovely, I know a fondle when I see one. That is a fondle. And the look on your face, too. I’m a bit jealous, actually. You’ve got Celeste and now-oh, have you got a name for the blunderbuss?”  
“I don’t like to say.”  
“You’ve named it?! That was quick. What’s his name, then?”  
“Her.”  
“Ha, of course. Her name. What’s her name?”  
“I’m not going to discuss this with you when you’re already full-fledged sneering at me, John Watson.”  
“Ooh, I’ve hit a nerve. Tender subject, a man’s blunderbuss.”  
“Shut up. I’m only holding it because it helps me to think.”  
“Oooer.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Never.”


	310. Chapter 310

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's journal entry in this chapter alludes to a plot point in my previous work, The Adventure of the Consulting Corpse. Before their reunion, Sherlock sent John a phone that he used to communicate with him while he was "dead."

“Did you think I’d forgotten?”  
“Forgotten what, John?”  
“It’s your birthday today!”  
“Shh. No, it isn’t.”  
“January six, yes, it is too your birthday.”  
“I haven’t got a birthday.”  
“Everyone’s got a birthday.”  
“Mmm no, not me. I sprang fully formed from my own skull.”  
“Well, today marks the anniversary of your expulsion from your own skull.”  
“The observance of such things is for mortals. We dispose of our time better on Mount Olympus.”  
“Well, bad luck for you because you’re married to a very mawkish mortal.”  
“If my mortal can’t keep his mawkishness to himself, he may find he’s been turned into a spider.”  
“Ergh, god. Anything but a spider.”  
“Yes, be a bit trying to be phobic of yourself, wouldn’t it?”  
“I’m not phobic of spiders! I just don’t like them!”  
“Still. Bit inconvenient, mawkish mortal of mine, mmm?”  
“Shut up. I’ve got that tingly feeling like there’s one on me. There isn’t, is there?”  
“No, no spiders on you. And John, I’m not actually Athena. I cannot call spiders into being just to torment you.”  
“That’s a relief.”  
“And I wouldn’t.”  
“Really?”  
“Of course not. It’s only fun to torment you, when you’re enjoying it as well.”  
“Right. Good.”  
“And obvious.”  
“Very effective digression, lovely. You nearly had me.”  
“Damn.”  
“I didn’t get you a present or anything mortal like that.”  
“Well, there’s something.”  
“I think Mrs Hudson’s baked you a cake, though.”  
“Yes, I know. I can smell it.”  
“I do have something for you, though. A little thing.”  
“Let’s have it, then.”  
“Are you sure you want it?”  
“I want anything you want to give me. Idiot.”  
“All right, then. If you’re sure.”  
“What I'm sure of is that you enjoy pretending to torment me just as much as I enjoy pretending to torment you.”  
“And that’s saying something.”  
“Indeed.”  
“Well lovely, all I’ve got for you is a Nice Thing. Bit anticlimactic, I suppose. Ha.”  
“Not at all. You’ve got the book, or shall I fetch it?”  
“I’ve got it. Come and sit by me.”

...

Woke up just now because my phone was ringing. Not my regular phone. My spy phone that Sherlock sent me back when he was dead. It already seems like such a long time ago, though it's only been a week since he came back. I didn't think it'd ever ring again, but I had it under my pillow anyway. Force of habit. I answered it, and it was just him breathing for a moment. I know that sound. Sherlock breathing. I'd know it anywhere. Then he said, "I'm coming home, John." I told him that he was home already, and he sort of scoffed and said, "No, John. Our home. Then I'll be able to tell you." I asked him what he wanted to tell me, and he said, "Everything." Then he went quiet, and it was him breathing again. Then snoring. So I popped down to his bedroom to have a look at him, and he was lying with one leg off the bed and his phone on his face, asleep. I took the phone away, and heaved him back onto the bed, which was a bit awkward because he doesn't wear much to bed. I'd forgotten. Probably should have left it, but I didn't want him to fall. Going to have to examine him when he wakes up. Saw some nasty bruises that he just happened not to mention to me. Don't think his confusion meant anything, though. He's not disorientated when he's awake. Takes a bit to get used to being back home when you've been away. He's got time, though. We've got time.

...

"Were you going to tell me that you were in love with me?"  
"Probably."  
"You don't remember?"  
"No, it was only somnambulism. I wasn't conscious of what I was saying."  
"Mhm. I've still got the phone."  
"Of course you do."  
"You've seen it then? Up in the empty bedroom?"  
"No, but people keep things like that. Sentiment."  
"Ha, right. Exactly. We should have it mounted to a plaque. We could hang it above the mantel with a little inscription, 'On this phone, Sherlock Holmes fell in love with John Watson.' Oh, that's what I should have given you for your birthday. Next year, then. I'll have it bronzed."  
"I was already in love with you by the first time I rung you."  
"Were you?"  
"Yes, John, obviously."  
"Obviously, eh?"  
"Well. I didn't realise it until I came back properly."  
"Ah, right, right. Who exactly was it obvious to, then?"  
"Obvious in retrospect."  
"That doesn't count, you know."  
“Yes, it does.”  
“No, it doesn’t.”  
“I set the rules. It’s my birthday.”  
“You just denounced your birthday, not twenty minutes ago.”  
“Well then, I set the rules because I’m Athena.”  
“Ha, all right. Fair enough.”  
“Indeed. And don’t you forget it, Arachne.”

...

Thingy thingday!  
~Molly~

 

That was in case you’re still being weird about your you-know-what.  
~Molly~

 

Weird about my you-know-what? I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that I am a happily married man, Ms Hooper.  
-SH 

 

Happy birthday!!! xoxo  
~Molly~

 

Ergh.  
-SH

 

Thought I’d better be more specific, since you’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick.  
~Molly~

 

How generous of you.  
-SH 

 

And! I got you a present!  
~Molly~

 

Joy.  
-SH 

 

Guess what it is!  
~Molly~

 

I don’t guess. It’s a trilby. You got my hat size wrong.  
-SH 

 

Settle down. All your over-punctuated bleating is making my head ache.  
-SH 

 

I don’t even mind you’re being so rude because it’s going to fit, and you’re going to wear it all the time and do that hair thing every time you go into a building.  
~Molly~

 

It’s not going to fit. People overestimate my head size because I’ve got curly hair.  
-SH 

 

What hair thing?  
-SH 

 

The oooh look at my beautiful hair let me shake it out for you so it’s all bouncy and glorious hair thing.  
~Molly~

 

I don’t do that! You are projecting. I’m a 7 ¼.  
-SH 

Damn! I got 7 ⅜.  
~Molly~

 

My bouncy and glorious hair fooled you.  
-SH

 

I’ll change it, then.  
~Molly~

 

You don’t have to do that.  
-SH 

 

The world needs Sherlock Holmes in a trilby.  
~Molly~

 

Anyway. Thingy thingday.  
~Molly~

 

Thank you.  
-SH 

 

Coming round for cake?  
-SH 

 

Try and stop me.  
~Molly~


	311. Chapter 311

"I think I fancy a pizza. What do you say, love? In the mood for pizza?"  
"John, throughout the duration of our acquaintanceship, have you ever once known me to express a craving for pizza?"  
"God, you're charming when you're churlish and flowery both at once."  
"I'm neither, you-"  
"Yes? What am I, then? An insolent blackguard?"  
"When have I ever called anybody a blackguard?"  
"Oh, my apologies, love. An impertinent ruffian, then."  
“I don’t talk like that.”  
“An audacious miscreant?”  
“An obnoxious smartarse.”  
“A reprehensible rogue.”  
“You know I eschew excessive alliteration.”  
“Except for that sentence.”  
“Insufferable reprobate.”  
“Mmm, you love it.”  
“So I do. Fish and chips?”  
“Ooh, all right.”

...

“Clara?”  
“Clara? What about her?”  
“Name of your shooty new girlfriend there. Am I close?”  
“No. She-it-I haven’t got a girlfriend, John. Not my area, if you recall.”  
“Mhm. Right, just a pretty new friend that you like to stroke sometimes. Perfectly innocent.”  
“Ridiculous man.”  
“Ha, you love it.”  
“Indeed. One of my few weaknesses. Clara’s a strange guess.”  
“Hmm, all right. Amy?”  
“Amy? No.”  
“Donna?”  
“No. Where are you getting these names from?”  
“They’re just good, solid names. Martha?”  
“No, but you’re getting warmer.”  
“Am I, really?”  
“Incidentally, apparently.”  
“Rose?”  
“Rose? How is Rose anything like Martha?”  
“Well, she isn’t, really.”  
“You’re never going to guess.”  
“Nah, probably not. You might tell me. If you’re feeling generous, lovely.”  
“Oh, all right then. You arouse my generous spirit. It’s Margaret.”  
“Margaret?”  
“Yes. Named for a woman from my past.”  
“Oh really? A woman from your past, eh? Do tell.”  
“Yes, yes. Margaret Hughes. I loved her deeply. Very nearly married her.”  
“What?!”  
“Yes. Margaret was a very special person. Very. Understanding. Very patient and kind. Very affectionate.”  
“You are having me on, you tosser.”  
“I’m absolutely not having you on, John. I loved Margaret. I was determined to marry her. I certainly would have done, if I’d not been five years old, and she’d not been sixty-seven.”  
“You arse! You really had me.”  
“Had you? Don’t be silly, John. I wasn’t trying to have you. You asked me about Margaret, and I told you.”  
“Well lovely, I can tell you that I was not expecting that answer.”  
“Mmm, speciality of mine.”  
“Ha yeah, so it is. How did you know Margaret?”  
“She lived next door to my grandmother.”  
“And that might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”  
“Ergh. I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”  
“Too late now.”  
“Indeed.”


	312. Chapter 312

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a tiny bit deaded from HLV, and I think it's rattled my brains a tad. Sat down to write, and this just sort of happened. Behold! The fluffiest thing I have ever written. Sorry for the patchiness lately. Been distracted by the new episodes and a bit under the weather. Should be back to posting a few times per week, as before.

“Sherlock.”  
“John?”  
“I have found them.”  
“Have you? Well, that sounds promising. What have you found, exactly?”  
“The socks.”  
“Were you missing a pair?”  
“No, the socks. Remember?”  
“I remember the fact of the existence of socks, but somehow I sense that’s not what you mean to allude to.”  
“Don’t you remember me moaning about how I’ve only been able to wear cheap, nasty socks since I broke my leg because I didn’t want to ruin my lovely ones by stretching them over the cast?”  
“And you can’t wear one lovely and one nasty.”  
“Right, so you do remember, then.”  
“No, I’ve still no idea what you’re talking about. I'm only pointing out the obvious.”  
“Come on, that’s exactly what you said last time. And then we decided that I should buy a really, really lovely pair when I’ve got my cast off. Remember?”  
“No, not at all. Are you quite sure you didn’t dream that?”  
“Right, I know I’m not as dashing and romantic as you are, but I’m not dull enough to have dreams about socks.”  
“And yet here we are in the middle of a conversation about a conversation about socks. Dreams, at least, are involuntary.”  
“Socks are important.”  
“Indeed. I’m glad to have impressed that upon you.”  
“Consider me impressed. Anyway. The socks.”  
“Ah yes. Tell me about the socks, John. They must be terribly special.”  
“Yeah, they are, actually. Molly’s-oh.”  
“What?”  
“It was Molly I was talking to about the socks, not you.”  
“You conflated me with Molly Hooper?!”  
“Sorry! You’re both really snide.”  
“Hmph. You were saying?”  
“Erm, right. Er, Molly’s got this friend Roger who knits, and he’s going to make some for me. They should be ready by the time I’ve got my cast off.”  
“Molly’s friend Roger wants to knit you a pair of socks?”  
“Well he sort of. Does that. He knits things and sells them, and he’s going to knit and sell me some socks.”  
“I see.”  
“Right, okay. Other blokes knitting me socks is one of the things you’re weirdly jealous about. Sorry, love, if you make me choose between you and the socks, I choose the socks. So would you, if you’d seen them. You’d drop me for these socks in a moment.”  
“I hope you will forgive me my incredulity, John.”  
“He brought me some like the ones he’s going to make me, and they’re all thick and soft and cable-knit. And I saw the yarn as well. It’s this dark mauve. It’ll be like I’m wearing teeny, purple sheep on my feet.”  
“Goodness.”  
“You don’t seem to appreciate how excellent the socks will be, Sherlock.”  
“Just give me a moment to adjust my world view for the inclusion of teeny, purple sheep, my John.”  
“You’re scoffing now, but you’ll change your tune when you set your eyes on these socks, Sherlock. Coup de foudre. It was for me; it will be for you. Fair warning, you will want to nick them. Resist that urge because otherwise, it will be the last you ever have...what? Are you laughing at me?”  
“Only a bit. Whenever I think I’ve got it settled that I like you best when you’re drawing your gun or singing over the washing up, or talking to me when you think I’m asleep or patching me up when I’ve earned some stupid injury, you rhapsodise about socks for ten minutes and then threaten my life. And now I have to re-evaluate everything. Pointless, really, on second thought. Your charm is bottomless. I am doomed to spend my life delighted with you.”  
“Ha, you lunatic."  
"You like lunatics."  
"Ha yeah, so I do. Give us a kiss, then…mmm. I’ll get you a pair, as well, shall I?”  
"Matched set, John."  
"Exactly."


	313. Chapter 313

"Ow! What's poking me? Ooh, what's this?"  
"Nothing, Molly! Just leave it!"  
"What is this? A cat toy?"  
"Put it down!"  
"Why's it all...is this a knitting needle?"  
"You know what it is. Put it back."  
"This for a case, then? Infiltrating a knitting circle?"  
"Shut up, Molly."  
"I expect I'll read all about it on John's blog soon? The Case of the Merino Bandits?"  
"Shut up at once, and stay shut."  
"You are really crap at knitting."  
"Yes, I know. I can see just as well as you can. Generally much better."  
"It's just all. Knotty."  
"I know, Molly!"  
"This'll be the first, then?"  
"Tenth, more like. I keep getting really irritated after five rows and tossing them on the fire."  
"First thing you can't do, I mean. Knitting."  
"Actually, I can't soft boil an egg, either."  
"How frustrating."  
"Indeed."  
"This is to do with John somehow, isn't it?"  
"Why would you say that? Are you expecting a happy announcement? Something with regard to a new addition? Sorry to disappoint."  
"No, I know better than that. Anytime some one says the word, 'baby' near you, you go all strident and sputtery. Erm, no. When you're weird and secretive, either you've got a case on, or you're doing something for John. Weird and smug is a case. Weird and stroppy is John."  
"Oooh, clever you. If I were stroppy, which I am not, it would be because you're rooting around in my personal possessions and interrogating me about them."  
"I asked you why I was sitting on a knitting needle! Maybe if you want to keep secrets, you shouldn't put them in chairs!"  
"Well, I was. Engaged. When you turned up--uninvited, if you recall--and I just stuffed my project down a cushion when you knocked. And then you sat in my chair. Also uninvited."  
"Have you been doing it from a book?"  
"Youtube."  
"Hmm, that was what I was going to suggest. Could Mrs Hudson help you?"  
"She doesn't knit; she crochets."  
"Too bad."  
"You won't tell John, will you?"  
"Is it a surprise?"  
"Yes, I’m going to surprise my husband with a knotted up mess. He’ll be so very pleased.”  
“You’re giving it up, then?”  
“Probably.”  
“Because you’re annoyed it isn’t going well, or are you getting bored of it?”  
“Getting bored of talking about it, certainly.”  
“Oh you.”  
“Oh me, what?”  
“You look a bit evil, and you sound a bit evil, but you’re all squishy inside, aren’t you?”  
“You’ve such a way with words, Molly.”


	314. Chapter 314

He isn’t dishy or anything.  
~Molly~

 

Wrong number.  
-SH

 

Roger, I mean.  
~Molly~

 

I don’t know a Roger.  
-SH

 

My friend Roger. John’s sock guy. He's got a pudding bowl haircut.  
~Molly~

 

Think carefully about how you want to proceed, Molly.  
-SH

 

That's what the knitting thing is about, isn't it?  
~Molly~

 

You’re not thinking carefully enough.  
-SH

 

Just thought you might be wondering.  
~Molly~

 

Your imagination is running away with you again.  
-SH

 

He’s not a patch on you.  
~Molly~

 

Whatever you think you’re doing, please stop it at once.  
-SH

 

His socks really are aces, though.  
~Molly~

…

The day after my cast came off, Sherlock was out and about most of the day. When he got in, I was lying on the sofa watching telly, but I switched it off when he got in. He tends to rather ruin them anyway (“Of course he’s not Michael’s father, but he’s far too stubborn and self-righteous to leave Sylvia; he adores his own misery. Makes him feel distinguished.”). Sherlock chucked a carrier bag of rubbish at the smashables box, hung his coat up and threw himself onto the sofa with a theatrical sigh.

"Hullo love," I said, leaning in to kiss him.

"Hello John," he said, pulling my feet into his lap once he'd gotten me kissed. “Have you done your exercises today?” He stroked my legs as if, with coaxing, they might whisper the answer to him before I could respond.

“Yep, did them earlier.” I flexed my ankles in demonstration, and Sherlock shifted his stroking slightly so that his hands moved from my ankles down the tops of my feet.

“These will be the famous socks, mm? The teeny, purple sheep?” he asked, stroking a bit more firmly.

“Oh ha, yep. They came in the post today. Yours will be along soon, I expect.”

“Did you really commission a pair of socks for me, John?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Mmm indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “trust John Watson to arrange for the socks he promises.”

“Right, I’m quite dependable that way,” I said. Sherlock smiled but went sort of quiet and looked down either at his hands or my feet. Both, I suppose. I watched him for a bit before I spoke again, “Got something on your mind, love?”

“Mmm?” Sherlock raised his eyes and smiled at me. “Only trying to think when was the last conversation I had that was nothing to do with socks. Seems quite long ago.”

I laughed, “Well then, let’s change the subject.”

“Only if you’re sure you’ve quite exhausted your desire to discuss them.”

“I don’t make any promises, but we can leave it for the time being, I’d say.”

“Well, in the interest of changing the subject, I’ve been meaning to compliment your ankles lately. They’re lovely,” Sherlock folded down the top of my left sock as he spoke and slid his fingers under it. “Seems odd I hadn’t noticed before.”

“Well, absence makes the heart grow fonder, love,” I said.

“Mmm, perhaps,” Sherlock rubbed light circular patterns on me with his fingertips. It was ticklish, and I squirmed a bit because he likes that. He smiled when I did and scraped my skin with his fingernails. “I suspect I haven’t been paying you careful enough attention,” he said after a rather lengthy pause to enjoy the ticklishness he was arousing.

“This is your idea of negligence, is it? That’s a bit frightening. You know every teeny thing about me already, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s smile broadened, “I know a bit,” he said.

“Ha, a bit. Look at you come over all modest. What’s an obscure John Watson fact, then? Dazzle me.”

Sherlock smirked. “Goodness. Let’s think. Dazzling is a tall order on short notice.”

“I thought you found me easily dazzled.”

“Less so than formerly. You know my tricks now.” He rubbed my foot silently for a few moments, while he considered. “Actually I have been noticing your laugh lately,” he said with a bit of a grin.

“My laugh?”

“Yes, when you laugh really hard, you rock in clockwise direction with your eyes shut and your head tipped back.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so. I have more.”

“Please continue.”

“Your mouth only ever really turns up on the right, even when you’re laughing. And when you laugh really, really hard, it sort of shoots out of you like a sneeze. I suspect that. deep down, you think that hilarity and propriety are at odds.”

“Ha, well anything I’m laughing at that hard is bound to be the sort of thing you ought not laugh about at all. You have rather dazzled me, by the way. I’d never have expected you to say that.”

Sherlock beamed in that surprised sort of way he has sometimes that makes me want to spend my life telling him what a wonder he is. “You flatter me, John.”

“Never. Oh I do have something for you, though. Little note. No, don’t get up. Couldn’t be arsed to put it in the tin. I’ve got it here. Just hush and listen, and don’t stop rubbing my feet.”

...

Hullo love,

Been feeling a bit soppy and philosophical today. Hope you’ll indulge me, though I’m sure you’re presently interrupting to tell me that’s not possible to be both at once. Shut up, though. I’m being romantic. Well sort of. I’m absolutely crap at it, but I’ll try anyway. If only to annoy you. We like that.  
I’ve had this thought in my head today. It’s the sort of thing you’d say, actually. I’m sure you’ve alluded to the idea before. We’re always changing, both of us. In little ways, but they add up, you know? I know I’m not quite the same John Watson you pocketed in that lab at Bart’s years ago. I’m not quite the same John Watson I was when we were separated. I’m not quite the same John Watson you came back to. I’m not even the same John Watson you married. Not exactly. Not quite. And though you are certainly the man I love, you are not exactly the man I fell in love with (excuse me for using that word, but if you pull any faces or make any stroppy sounds, I will thump you. I’m being romantic, and you’re shutting up).

That’s a lovely idea, I think, though it might be a bit unsettling on its face. We’ll spend our lives relearning each other and ourselves. We’ll always be having new opportunities to impress and surprise and delight and inspire each other. Isn’t that exciting? Years from now, decades from now, some iterations of ourselves will still be teasing each other out. Finding new or neglected bits of each other to admire and to puzzle over. Lovely.

Yours,  
John


	315. Chapter 315

There’s a creak. Here’s me already rewriting history (history? That's fatalistic, isn't it?), wanting to call it an ominous creak. It isn’t ominous; it’s just a creak, except that it precedes an ambush. There’s a creak just overhead (fire escape) and my assailant drops lightly onto my back, and his (fairly sure about that; I can feel stubble on the back of my neck) arm is round my neck, forcing my head up. I hear the soft snick of a knife being flicked open down and to my right. His breath is hot and steady on my neck and my hair. I bend my knees, preparing to flip him off my back, but his arm tightens around my neck and his legs round my waist, and then the knife is at my throat. Only for a moment, though. He hasn’t any time for (redundant) threats or demands.

Because here’s John. I know him even before I can see him or hear him. Some indelible parts of us have been welded together in fire and blood, and I know him always (shut up; now is not the moment for poetry).

I know my John even before the knife is withdrawn with a little scream of pain and surprise (knife grazes me on its way down; John will be furious)(it really is only a graze)(actually perhaps a bit more than a graze; already I can feel the wetness of blood on my neck) and John says in a low, sweet sort of growl (it’s nearly the purr of a lover), “I’ve just broken your wrist. Did you hear it crack? If you like your arm still in the socket, you want to drop that knife.” The knife hits the pavement near my shoe at once. I feel the reverberations under my foot before John kicks the knife away. Only a bit away, I hear it hit the alley wall. “There’s a good boy,” John murmurs. I can nearly hear his throbbing heart in that throaty murmur. Makes me rather weak in the knees. “In over your head, aren’t you? Now let him go, and I won’t kill you. Probably.” The assailant (not so much anymore)(the assailed, rather) mutters something indistinct that makes John laugh darkly, “Fucking try me.” There’s another little scream of pain and the man on my back rather crumples off me onto the ground, John still holding him, I think. “No, up on your knees and your hands on your head. Yes, both of them. Good. Just like that.” I step away from them now, look into John’s face (can’t see much of it; it’s quite dark). No! Focus! I stoop and pick up the knife and pocket it. “Thank you,”John says. “I was just going to ask. Are you injured?”

“A bit,” I admit.

“Right,” John says. He sounds nearly calm, but he isn’t remotely (am I the only one in the world who can hear the difference? I hope so). “How bad?”

“A scratch,” I say.

“Come here,” John says. I approach, pulling off my scarf (might be slightly worse than I thought; my neck is sticky and my scarf is damp), and his jaw clenches when he sees the wound (for want of a better term). “Scarf back on,” he says. “Apply pressure but. You know, don’t asphyxiate yourself. And phone the police, please. Thank you.”

I ring Lestrade instead of 999, and he tells me he’ll send a patrol unit in advance. It seems an age before either actually turn up. It isn’t an age really, but I’m humming with adrenaline and want anything rather than to be stood in the mouth of an alley waiting to answer stupid questions and fill in paperwork (John will definitely frogmarch me to A&E). My assailant remains knelt between us, his hands on his head, hissing with pain and tremulously telling John that he’s insane. “Ha, yep,” is John’s reply every time. His jaw’s still set and clenching, though he’s wearing the rather terrifying little smile he wears when he’s enraged. He’s backlit by an orange streetlamp, which sets his hair aglow and makes his irises so opaque, they’re nearly black. I cannot keep my eyes off him.

John is ferociously snappish with the officers when they finally arrive. He gives Lestrade about thirty seconds to question us, then I am swept away to A&E quite quickly. There I am given a tetanus jab, bandaged, and told that I do not need stitches (which I already knew)(well not properly knew but suspected)(John would say that doesn’t count).

Despite that bit of tedium, I’m quite giddy when we step out of the surgery. I suspect it is proximity to John that does it. He still looks murderous (lovely). I get a cab, which John tries to refuse, but I climb in, and he follows me.

When he’s situated next to me, I drop a heavy hand on his thigh, lean towards him touching my forehead to his temple, and whisper in his ear, “You want to save your strength, John.” John draws a long breath, clears his throat, and gives our address. Then he leans back in the seat and puts his hand over mine on his flexing thigh. Lovely.

John’s just behind me as we climb the front steps. When we come into the entryway, I glance back at him over my shoulder and have a moment to realise that I know what he’s going to do just before he does it (like that ominous creak that could have meant nothing but didn’t). John tugs me toward him by the sleeve, then spins me to face him and walks me backward until I hit the wall with a little gasp and heavy thud that will bring Mrs Hudson out of her flat (or perhaps not, as it’s a somewhat distinctive sound)(ahem).

John kisses me before I’ve quite got my breath back. Rather a rough kiss (I bite my tongue) that gets rather rougher. There’s a little clash of teeth and a little too much saliva and he’s got a tight enough fistful of my hair that my eyes are beginning to prick. It seems as if my pulse is everywhere. My hands and my chest and my hair and my skin and my eyes and my mouth. John presses tighter still against me as if, with effort, he might sink right into me. His knee between my thighs is all that’s keeping me (nearly) upright. Indeed his touch (that fist is still tightening in my hair) is all that’s keeping me solid. By rights, I should be slowly reducing to a viscous, gibbering effusion at his feet. Lovely.


	316. Chapter 316

John is under the impression that I am asleep, I believe. I may have been. I’m not sure. I drooled on him a bit at some point. There’s a slightly tacky patch between my cheek and his chest. I must have been asleep for a moment, at least. I’m too warm and idle and comfortable to even stir my head away from it. His hand is on my waist and occasionally his thumb will twitch to stroke me, and it’s all I can do not to squirm with pleasure and surprise and ticklishness when he does, but somehow I manage it. I’m awash in John’s lovely smell (so evergreen tonight)(it will cling to my hair; I’ll smell him on me all through breakfast)(lovely) and his warm skin, and it’d take a miracle to move me an inch.

I ought to be asleep, I suppose. I am more comfortable and content (cosy, John would say)(I’d allow it)(too cosy to sneer) than I can remember being in ages. John’s metronomic heartbeat is thudding away under my ear. On his inhales, John’s chest swells under me for what seems like an impossibly long time, holds for a moment, then sinks so slowly, so gently. His right leg is caught between both of mine. I’m sweating on him.

Before we were together (that’s a stupid way to put it)(before we were together like we are now)(cumbersome)(I’ll find a word for the two versions of us eventually)(there’ve been more than two, but there’s certainly a distinct line between what we were and what we are)(the kiss, I suppose)(hmm debatable)(what was I saying?)(ergh muddled; did I go to sleep again?)(start over). The Sherlock who did not allow himself to be held did not imagine John to be a holder. Which seems absurd now, but the confusion was understandable at the time (I hope).

John is pragmatic and reserved (except with me) and not particularly demonstrative or affectionate (except with me)(which is more real? The exception or the rule?). He appointed himself my most ardent defender hardly a day after we met. How could there be more than that?

Even now, it feels so lavish. Five hours ago, he saved my life, and now here we are (and there was a hot bath in the middle)(slightly right of the middle, really). How unreasonable of me to be the beneficiary of both of these opposing tendernesses. How luxurious. John shifts his hand from my waist to my hair, and his next breath is a sigh. I can’t let that go unanswered. I squeeze him and open my eyes.

John chuckles, “You are asleep.”

I smile and tip my head up for a kiss. Wait to answer until I receive it. “I don’t sleep, John.”

“I think you do. I’m sure I’ve seen you at it.”

I shake my head, “Cunning deception. I replenish my energy by plugging into you at night to charge.”

John laughs, “You plug into me, do you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, that’s the opposite of how I remember it.” I knew he was going to say that, but it makes me laugh anyway. John lowers his voice for his next remark, “Is it a bit not good I’m pleased you’re awake? I miss you when you’re asleep.”

I shake my head, “We’re a bit not good, I suppose. I miss you when you’re asleep, as well.”

We’re both quiet for a long moment. “I do like it when we fall asleep approximately together,” says John.

“Yes, of course,” I say. “So do I.” John holds me a bit closer. We don’t speak again.


	317. Chapter 317

Waking without Sherlock is nothing at all like waking with Sherlock. I fell asleep last night with my Sherlock asleep on my chest and woke unmistakably alone. Woke because I was cold, actually. I think. There’s no being cold with Sherlock in bed. Heat just comes off him, particularly when he’s reclined. Sometimes I fancy I can see it rise off him in a haze. Mingling with his genius. When I woke a bit chilled, I knew he was nowhere near, and even though I’d been with him all night, rode home with him in the cab, taken him to bed, and fallen asleep holding him, my treacherous mind took me back to that damp, dark alley, and I felt heavy with panic.

The panic was cut nearly at once by the sound of Sherlock’s violin, drifting in under the door from the sitting room. I sat up, breathing a little uneasily and shut my eyes to listen and to let the music calm me. It was something new. Slow and tentative, and it made me think of a vine climbing a trellis. He was composing, and he’d only just got a little bit. Just a cutting. He must have waked with it in his fingers and been impelled out into the sitting room to grow it. I don’t often get to look at him as he composes, but I imagine his compositions live in his skin and his hair and his eyes and his breath, just as all of his ideas seem to.

I didn’t like to disturb him, but I didn’t like to do without him, and I sat dithering over what to do until the playing changed. He went into the second piece he composed for me. More, he calls it. No better invitation than that. I got out of bed, found my slippers, and put on my dressing gown. When I came out into the sitting room, Sherlock was in his usual spot by the window, playing energetically. As I entered, he turned toward me, still playing and smiled at me. I must have looked as admiring as I felt because he laid down his violin and bow at once and bounded across the room to me in two steps. I was grateful for that. I’d have bounded to him, only my bounds are a bit wobbly at the moment.  
Sherlock kissed me. I love it when he kisses me. Generally he languidly invites me to kiss him whenever he fancies being kissed. I suspect he likes to make me go up on tiptoe. Perhaps I looked like I really needed it. He kissed me and towed me to the sofa to try and curl into my lap before continuing his greetings.

“Good morning John,” he said, laying his head on my shoulder. “I missed you.” His voice was still a bit sleep-rough. I like that.

I put my arm round him and fancied I could feel him smile against me. “Good morning, lovely. I missed you, too.”

Sherlock chuckled into the crook of my neck. I love that sound. It’s sort of innocently wicked. “Do you miss me in your sleep, my John?”

“‘Course I do,” I told him. And he nodded avidly, as if he’d expected no less.


	318. Chapter 318

“You should wear lace-up boots.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You should wear lace-up boots, Molly. You’ve been wearing boots that are slightly too large for you because of your unusually large calves. But they make you shuffle, and frankly, the noise is intolerable. Lace-ups are the clear solution. Wear lace-ups.”  
"Right, you are not allowed to tell me which bits of me are unusually large or unusually small ever again."  
"Tetchy."  
"Shut up. My calves are none of your business."  
"Right. Yes. Sorry. Excuse me."  
"Okay, it's fine. Erm. Anyway. What's under the bandage?"  
"Oh you know. My quarterly near-death experience."  
"You're looking very well for some one nearly dead."  
"Thank you. I was only nearly dead for a moment, though. John sorted it."  
"He's handy that way."  
"So he is. Excellent quality in a husband."  
"You'll want to celebrate, then."  
"Celebrate my excellent husband?"  
"Well that and your survival."  
"Are we congratulating ourselves every morning for not having died the previous night? Seems a tad self-indulgent."  
"We'll go and have a drink. Text John."  
"Ergh."  
"You are the most unsociable man I've ever met."  
"Thank you; I take that as a compliment. Come round, if you insist on watching us drink something in celebration of not dying this week. I don't particularly fancy being around the other humans this evening."  
"But you make an exception for me? How sweet."  
"Oh, do you consider yourself one of the other humans?"

…

I break open the fortune cookie, pull out the fortune and read it aloud, “'You may lack ambition, but not the ability to succeed.'”  
Sherlock tuts huffily and shakes his head, “Rude, rude! Bit rude, that one, isn’t it?” He’s got it wrong, then. John giggles helplessly, but he’s been laughing at everything Sherlock says for his last two drinks. He's not playing our game, but he drinks at every fortune, 'out of solidarity with the loser,' he explained when we began. Which means Sherlock. Sherlock is losing. I'm winning.

“What had I got?” Sherlock asks, patting John energetically on the arm. He's not nearly as drunk as John is, but they're feeding each other's giddiness. They do that.

John bats Sherlock’s hand away with his elbow. “Stop, you! You’re going to knock it out of my hand,” he says, unfolding Sherlock’s note. He squints down at the bit of paper for several seconds before breaking into giggles again, “I can’t read this,” he admits. “You’ve got the worst handwriting in the world.” John scoops the cookie shards across the table and begins to nibble at them.

Sherlock scowls for a moment, then shuts his eyes, raises his hands to his temples and shouts, “Spectacles!” as if it’s one of his deductions. And he takes John’s reading glasses out of his own breast pocket and slides them delicately up John’s nose. John gives him a very soppy look indeed, and I start to get that feeling I get when I’m with them sometimes. Like I’ve turned into a chair or a mug.

“What does it say, John?” I ask.

John pushes his glasses a little further up on his face and smiles down at the paper, “It says, ‘A coming change will bring joy.’ Oh yours is nicer, love.”

“But wrong!” I say. “Bad luck, Sherlock. Drink up.” I pour out a shot of whiskey, and he grimaces and waits for me to pour John's as well.

“Merciless,” he says after he’s swallowed it down. John claps him on the back, then tosses back his own shot.

“That’s what a drinking game is, Sherlock,” I say. “You got it wrong, so. Anyway, this was your idea.”

“You doubted me,” Sherlock mutters, wiping his mouth with the the back of his hand and reaching for my tea.

I watch him take a long gulp. “Still do, actually,” I tell him. “You’ve had four out of six wrong.”

“Better than you could do,” he says, sulkily.

“Guesser,” I say, and he actually pouts.

John’s giggling again. He pulls the last cookie out of the bag and breaks it open. “‘Love and happiness are coming your way,’” he reads.

Sherlock’s grinning. He must have got this one right. I unfold the last bit of paper and read it, “‘Love and happiness are in your future.’”

"Satisfying, isn't it?" Sherlock says. His voice is warm, and his S's are beginning to go mushy. I don't often see him this way, but it's nice. So. Normal. "Satisfying, even though it's a bit stupid, mm?" He pours a shot for me, for John, then one for himself.

"What's satisfying?" I ask.

"When they come true, of course. Love and happiness." He raises his glass, and John and I both lean in and tap our glasses against his.

"Love and happiness," we three say together. And we drink.


	319. Chapter 319

I wake up lying face down on something soft and sticky. I’ve slept in all my clothes, even my cardigan. The zip on my jeans is really digging into me. I pat the soft, sticky thing I’m lying on, and the bits of it that are not sticky are leathery. I crack my eyes open and cringe. It’s really, really bright. So bright. Too bright. Bright enough to see where I am and then some. The soft, leathery thing is John and Sherlock’s sitting room sofa, and the sticky thing is a little pool of drool. My own, luckily. If you’re going to wake up in a puddle of bodily fluids, your own drool is just about as good as it gets. I sit up, swab away the drool with the sleeve of my cardigan, and squint against the criminally bright light coming in through the absolutely useless curtains.

“Agh,” I say and cover my eyes with my arm. “Somebody do something about that.”

“Shhhhh,” somebody hisses nearby. “Stop bellowing.” I start and lower my arm to look round. Sadly, it’s not a sun-extinguisher. It’s John. He’s curled rather limply in his chair, wrapped in a very puffy duvet. He heaves himself out of his chair, slouches over to the sofa, and stands swaying slightly. I think he’s swaying, anyway. My head's a bit spinny.

“Budge over,” he says. “You’re in my hangover spot.” I do a little bum-shuffle to one end of the sofa. John takes the other, pulling his feet up and cocooning himself completely in the duvet, so that only his head is poked out of the top. I’m jealous of his cocoon. I pull the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and wrap up in it. John chuckles, then squints and frees a hand from his cocoon to press it to his temple. “Christ,” he mutters. “One of us will need to put the kettle on. Or we may die.”

“Yes,” I agree. Neither of us move. “Where’s Sherlock?” I ask.

“Sleeping, the bastard,” John says.

“Bastard,” I agree.

“Why do we do it, Molly?” John says after a bit.

“We live on the edge,” I say. “And we are idiots.” John chuckles again. And as if Sherlock’s got special sensors that alert him whenever anybody nearby is nicking his bit, there’s a little thump from the next room. John begins to grin. One of those little grins he doesn’t know he does. One of his Sherlock faces. From the bedroom, there’s a big yawn that turns into a groan, and a moment later, the bedroom door slides open with rather a bang. That produces another little groan.

“Trousers, Sherlock,” John calls. Pause.

“Molly?” Sherlock calls back.

“Trousers, Sherlock!” I answer.

There’s a little grunt of annoyance, which doesn’t bode well. But Sherlock appears a few moments later, covered well enough in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He nods at me, then squeezes between John and me on the sofa, trying simultaneously to enter the cocoon and climb into John’s lap. Since John’s lap is sort of curled in on itself because he’s doubled up and hidden under the cocoon, Sherlock is not very successful. He does jostle me loads, though. When one of his feet lands briefly in my lap, I get up and move to Sherlock’s chair.

“I hope you’re not about to put your feet in my chair, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock says sharply when I do.

“You sit in it, then, if you’re so high-minded.”

Sherlock huffs. “Why don’t you ever sit in John’s chair?”

“Because John’s chair may as well be an unfortunately upholstered boulder,” I say. “It’s horribly uncomfortable.”

“Hey!” John says.

Sherlock nods, “The upholstery is rather unfortunate,” he says.

“I like my chair,” John says.

“I know,” Sherlock says. “That’s why you get to sit in it.”

John and I watch Sherlock scrabbling around the edges of the duvet cocoon for a bit. He's trying to get into it without completely displacing John, but all the ends are tucked in. There's no way for him to do that. John is smiling fondly but makes no move to help him. My head is pounding, and my mouth is sour and vaguely acidic. Was I sick last night? I don't remember, but I certainly hope not. Perhaps it's just dry mouth. Ergh.

"I'd kill you both for a toothbrush," I say. John finally flings out one arm puffing open a gap in the duvet, and Sherlock eagerly burrows into it and tucks his entire head and torso away in John's cocoon.

"Have you just threatened our lives for a toothbrush?" he asks when he's situated with just his legs coming out of the bottom.

"Yes," I say.

Sherlock's chuckle is muffled, "That's my girl."


	320. Chapter 320

"Yes, love?"  
"Yes what, John?"  
"Did you need something?"  
"No, not particularly. Why do you ask?"  
"I thought you must especially want my attention. What with the way you've been sashaying around the room ever since I opened my book."  
"Sashaying?!"  
"I promise you, there's no other word for it."  
"I do not sashay!"  
"Yeah, you do. Someday I'll fill the flat with mirrors, so you can see for yourself. It's ha, charming."  
"I'm only pacing a bit because it helps me to think. It's nothing to do with you. Vain. And it isn't sashaying."  
"All right, lovely. Well, you carry on thinking, with your hips apparently, and I'll carry on with my book."  
"Hmph. Insolent. You're going the right way for a pressing, you know."  
"Then I'd best keep going, hadn't I?"

...

“What is the meaning of this, John?”  
“Er, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific, love.”  
“The wardrobe is in disarray.”  
"It really isn't."  
"Explain this, then."  
"That? Scientists are calling it a shirt. It's green. What else about it is befuddling you, love? The buttons?"  
"It's facing the wrong direction."  
"Goodness."  
"And it's in the blue bit."  
"The blue bit."  
"Yes."  
"Go on."  
"Er, where the blue shirts go, John. Obviously."  
"Obviously we've got a blue shirt section in our wardrobe. Obviously."  
"You sneer, but you'd be more productive, if you were more organised."  
"More productive?"  
"Much more."  
"Am I derelict in my production, then? Not meeting my quotas?"  
"No, I'm afraid you've fallen short in your quotas for this quarter, John."  
"That's very unfortunate."  
"Yes, you want to carefully consider your plans for your future at this organisation. You've not produced any new freckles in ages."  
"That’s terribly derelict. How do you tolerate it?"  
"I'm renowned for my generosity."  
"Ha, of course. And you believe that keeping green shirts out of the blue shirt bit will help me to produce freckles?"  
"I don't see how it couldn't."  
"Right. What about this one? It's sort of green blue."  
"Blue green. And it goes on the border. That's why it's on the border."  
"Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Lucky I have you to teach me."  
"Yes, I've always said so."  
...

“Well well.”  
“Yes?”  
“Look at all this John Watson. An embarrassment of riches.”  
“I think you’ve seen it all before.”  
“Mmm indeed, so I have seen it all before, John. Not often in the sitting room, though.”  
“Well, you said that I was behind on my freckle quota.”  
“I did say that.”  
“You told me to think carefully about my plans for my future at this organisation.”  
“So I did, yes.”  
“Well, I’ve been thinking carefully, and I’ve devised a plan to get me back on track.”  
“Being naked in the sitting room?”  
“Being naked.”  
“Ah.”  
“Good, eh?”  
“Very.”


	321. Chapter 321

Found the wig. Arrest Lucas.   
-SH 

 

What?

 

Oh, that was meant for Lestrade.   
-SH 

 

You solved it without me?! 

 

You said I could come along!

 

I waited as long as I could.  
-SH

 

Damn it! 

 

At least leave the outfit on. 

 

Sorry John but no, certainly not.   
-SH 

 

I hate these trousers. Everything is all. Crowded.   
-SH 

 

And I'm getting some very discomfiting stares.   
-SH 

 

You're discomfitingly attractive in leather trousers. 

 

Not that I forgive anyone with the gall to stare at my husband's arse. 

 

Well they've got me walking a bit waggly; they're so tight.   
-SH 

 

The trousers.   
-SH

 

Sashaying, you mean?

 

Bite your tongue, John Hamish Watson.   
-SH 

 

Did you wear the boots?

 

I did. You insisted.   
-SH 

 

I love the boots. 

 

I know.   
-SH 

 

I really love the boots. 

 

Yes, so I recall.   
-SH 

You might leave the boots on, if not the trousers. 

 

I suppose I can arrange for that. What’s in it for me?  
-SH 

 

Whatever you like. 

 

That’s terribly generous. I’m quite imaginative, you know.   
-SH 

 

Yeah, I do know. I depend on it, actually. 

 

See you shortly, John.   
-SH 

 

If not sooner. 

...

“It’s your toothbrush too, you know.”  
“What?”  
“We use the same toothbrush, John.”  
“What are you getting at?”  
“Am I getting at something?”  
“Right, you are getting at your own toothbrush. Right now. Get your things on.”  
“You’re so dramatic.”  
“That’ll teach you to try and provoke me.”  
“You mean it'll teach me not to try and provoke you. And I’ll only bin it again, you know.”  
“Try that, and see where it gets you.”  
“Are you threatening me?”  
“Do you need threatening?”  
“Mmm generally. But I need your mouth flora, John. It keeps me well.”  
“You’ve got plenty of access to my mouth flora. You’re getting your own toothbrush, clever boots. And let this be a lesson to you not to gloat. Get your things on.”


	322. Chapter 322

Sherlock’s wedding ring caught the light when he raised his hands. It shone as he steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. I went magpie for a moment, and nearly forgot to watch his face. I did look at him when he began to speak, his eyes focussed on the painting in front of him but dreamily distant, as well.

“He was ill,” he murmured, reaching out with his right hand, tucking his left fist under his chin, his little finger twitching. “Very ill. Tuberculosis, I think.” Sherlock’s head sagged a bit. He clasped his hands under his chin. When he spoke again, his voice was lower still, “I doubt he survived the year.” We were both silent for a moment, and I looked from him to the painting of the sickly boy in the rich clothing.

“I think I see it,” I said.

Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Sherlock half-smile. He loves it when I try to see. “Quite a young man,” Sherlock continued, “but his hair is greying. And there’s that pallor. The brightness of the eyes. And see how his clothes are loose on him. He’s been losing weight quickly. The clothes were made when the portrait was commissioned, but see they’re already too large for him.” Sherlock dropped his right hand to his side, and I took it at once. It was warm and solid. I laced our fingers together, and he squeezed mine. “He fell in love with the artist,” Sherlock said, nearly too low to hear. “See how he smiles.” He stroked my hand with his thumb, and his smile broadened, but his eyes were rather sad.

“We know that look, don’t we, John? The incredulous joy of being seen and known when-” He paused to look at me and squeezed my hand again. “Before it’s too late. We know that look.”

“Yes, love,” I said, squeezing him in return. “We do know.”

…

“We’ve been here an age, John!” my voice comes out much louder and higher-pitched than I’d been expecting. I clear my throat, and John smirks over the display of silk scarves he is perusing with painful deliberation. And what for? He isn’t going to buy one.

“Ten minutes,” John corrects primly.

I roll my eyes, “An age is a relative measure, and ten minutes in a museum shop is certainly an age, you sadist.”

The tenor of John’s smirk changes in some unnameable way that gives me mysterious prickles of anticipation. “Steady now,” he says reaching out a hand toward me, his eyes still fixed on the scarves. I step forward at once to tuck myself against his side. He wraps his arm round my waist and rests a hand on my hip. Lovely. I sigh. It’s such a relief sometimes to have him touch me. And I can smell him now. Evergreen and sweat and wool and petrichor (learnt that word from him!) coming off his collar. I want to taste him (can’t now)(later)(soon). “Now be reasonable, Sherlock,” John says. My name is so soft in his mouth. I shut my eyes for a moment to fancy I can see it rolling over his tongue (mmm). “You’re having a nicer time here than you were back at the flat, complaining about the weather. Of all things. Mmm?” He gives me a sharp tap with the hand on my hip, demanding an answer. I nod. “So don’t rush me,” his voice is getting lower and when he speaks again, his hand begins to stroke my hip. “And how can I spend all morning in a museum without wanting to take something lovely home with me?” John looks up into my face, eyebrows raised and wets his lips slowly. I shiver. Witchcraft. My face is hotting. I hope I’m flushing; he likes that.

I clear my throat, “You are taking something lovely home with you, John,” I say, bending to brush a kiss on his jaw and pressing my hips against his. “Something quite lovely. Wouldn’t you agree?” Graze the curve of his ear with my nose, hoping to get a bit of my own back.

John gives my side a little pinch, and I feel him laugh silently when I jump. “Steady, I said,” he tells me, his voice so low and warm. I shut my eyes again. “Anyway,” he continues and his hand resumes stroking my hip, “What will we do when we leave here? Go back to the flat? And what is there for us to do with ourselves at the flat? Mmm? What? Can you think of anything?” I nod, and John chuckles. “Oh you can, can you? Well, then. Clever you.”


	323. Chapter 323

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock! Can't you hear me?"  
"Yes, of course I can hear you! Hush. Let go of my arm. I’m busy."  
"Hush?"  
"Yes. It means stop talking."  
"I know what it means!"  
"Are you sure? Because you're still talking."  
"Has it occurred to you-"  
"Yes."  
"-that I actually have something to say, and I'm not making noise just for the hell of it?!"  
"Fine."  
"Fine?"  
"Yes, go on, then. Off you go. What's so important?"  
"This is pointless. It's not in here. Let's just go."  
"It is in here, John! It has to be! There's nowhere else it could have gone."  
"No, it isn't! It isn't! it isn't! Please, let's go. It's gone."  
"It can't be gone! How could it be gone?!"  
"No idea, but I'm not spending the rest of my life up to my ankles in skip juice until it unimpossibles itself, all right? Come on! Let's go home; we're soaked to the skin, and you're trembling."  
"Oh for god’s sake! I am not-"  
"Yes, you are!"  
"Fine. Fine, we'll get out. We can just try the one in the next alley over. Maybe she-"  
"No!"  
"No?"  
"No, we are not going to jump into every skip in London. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!"  
"Oh good lord. Next you’ll be stamping your foot at me. You know quite apart from being incredibly irritating, these ill-timed theatrics are a complete waste of energy. Two skips is hardly every skip in-"  
"Errrr, actually that'd make number six. Five bloody skips I've jumped into on your say so. It's just gone, Sherlock. Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. Gone forever, gone. Let's pack it in, and go home, all right? And maybe we'll stand some chance of ever getting warm again. You're about ten minutes from hypothermia, and. We're just done here, all right? Now get out of the bloody skip before I throw you over my shoulder and drag you out."  
"All right, then! All right. Fine. We'll go. You first; I'll give you a boost."  
"No tricks?"  
"Cross my heart."

…

"What are you doing?"  
"What does it look like? Getting into dry clothes. Have you seen my boots? My shoes are a lost cause. Put them by the fire for me when you get out of the shower, will you?"  
"Yes, I can see you're getting into dry clothes. What for is what I'm wondering."  
"Obviously I'm going-"  
"No."  
"No?"  
"No."  
"Yes."  
"No."  
"Well, we might go on like this for quite some time. I suggest you get into the shower and warm up instead. I'll be back in a few hours. At most."  
"Oh no, you won't."  
"John, don't be difficult."  
"Do not test me. You are not going anywhere. You haven’t even dried off properly; your shirt is sticking to you, and your hair is wet. And you've got gooseflesh. You're going to make yourself ill."  
"Illness is not caused by getting wet."  
"What about swimming around in skips while it's pissing down rain, mm?"  
"Yes, I'm sure I'll come down with a raging case of a brand new disease, skip fever. You'll write a paper on me as patient zero and finally have the accolades you deserve within the medical community."  
"Right, if you are trying to make me absolutely boiling furious, for warmth I suppose, keep this up because you're going the right way for it."  
"I really don't understand what all this bluster is about, John. I just want to have another look. A quick one. I won't be long. I'll come right back, and you can make as much fuss as you like after I've solved it."  
"But you have solved it! You worked out who did it and how and why, and you've even proved it. I know it doesn't seem solved to you until you've tied up the loose ends, but it isn't worth it to keep at it with this one. Just leave it, all right, love? For me? Please."  
"Ergh. Fine. Have it your way."  
"Don't even think about pretending that I always get my own way, because that is so far from-"  
"John! Not now, if you don't mind. I'm going to go and have a shower. You may come along to warm up, if you promise not to talk."  
“Generous.”  
“Yes, one of my finer virtues.”


	324. Chapter 324

"Mrs Hudson sent you up some soup. She said she heard you coughing all day. No improvement, then?"  
"Mm."  
"It's carrot. Your favourite. So. Let me know when you're ready, and I'll heat it up for you."  
"Mm."  
"Are you hmming at me because you're cross or because it hurts to talk?"  
"I'm not cross."  
"Right. Of course not. Where could I have gotten that idea? I suppose you blame me for this."  
"Did I say that?"  
"If either of us called this little ailment into being, it was you, Mr Skip Fever."  
"Yes, thank you, John. That'll do nicely for the gloating at the moment. I'll let you know if my levels dip low in future."  
"I'm not gloating."  
"You're pink with the effort of not actually speaking the words, 'I told you so.' I call that next door neighbours to gloating, at least."  
"I don't actually enjoy it when you're ill, you know."  
"Only you enjoy being proved right."  
"That's a John Watson trait, is it?"  
"Bit less noise, please. I'm trying to sleep."

...

You wouldn't let me use your toothbrush.   
-SH 

 

Speaking to me now, are you?

 

Congratulations on having worked out how exactly to blame this on me. You must be very pleased. 

 

I don't see why you feel the need to be so stingy with your mouth flora.   
-SH 

 

Yes, you do. You did it on purpose.

 

I wasn't expecting you to overreact quite so vigorously.   
-SH 

 

But then what do I know?   
-SH 

 

I have it on good authority that I'm an impossible, overgrown baby.   
-SH 

 

I'm sorry. 

 

Are you? Why's that?  
-SH 

 

I didn't know you heard that. I thought you were asleep.

 

That makes it better, does it?  
-SH 

 

No. 

 

Worse. 

 

Yes, it does, doesn't it?  
-SH 

 

I'm really sorry. 

 

I didn't mean it. 

 

All right.   
-SH 

 

I'm really really sorry. 

 

Yes.   
-SH 

 

How are you feeling?

 

Horrible.   
-SH 

 

Any worse? Want me to come home?

 

Don't trouble yourself. It's only out of guilt, anyway.   
-SH 

 

No trouble. 

 

I'm sure you'll suit yourself.   
-SH 

 

Please pick up. 

 

You're not going to listen to that voicemail, are you?

 

Have you gone back to sleep, or are you not speaking to me again?

 

I'm really sorry. 

 

I'm coming home, all right?

 

Be there soon. 

 

Do you need anything? I could stop at the Tesco. 

 

I'll just ask you when I get in, then. 

 

Sherlock?


	325. Chapter 325

“Oh, my lovely.” I wake with John pressing cold hands to my forehead and my cheek. My eyes are bleary with sleep, and the room is dark. Can’t see his face clearly enough, and I’m not sure if I’m projecting my own churning anxiety (anxious? why?)(I’m ill; it makes me nervous)(head aches; can’t think) onto it. His mouth is downturned, and there are two fretful lines between his eyebrows. “Look at you,” he says, brushing my fringe off my face. It feels rather lovely. Those cold hands in my hair. Though it's a bit unsettling that he should be so cold. Is he ill? Or perhaps it’s a dream. When I was dead, sometimes he’d come to me as a ghost in my dreams. I couldn’t tell until I’d try to touch him. He’d look so contrite when I made the discovery. ‘Sorry Sherlock,’ he’d say. As if I’d blame him.

“John? Are you…?” It burns to speak, and I can’t think how to finish that sentence. Are you a ghost? Are you a dream? What’s happened to you? Leave it as it is. He’ll answer it as best he can. He meets me where I am, John does. He can answer questions I don’t know how to ask. Is that nonsense? Every thought seems to coagulate so slowly. By the time I’ve got to the bottom of a sentence, the top seems to have evaporated. Like. Something. A rope bridge running out behind me. Ergh. Romantic. Wish I could stop them altogether. Infuriating to watch them dripping out so slowly (I can’t just turn it off like a tap).

John frowns down at me. With concern, I think. Not annoyance. I want to hold his hand. I don’t mind he’s a dream. For the moment, anyway. I hope he doesn’t stay that way. Reach up and tug at his wrist, and he withdraws his hands at once, looking slightly stung. I don’t know what to make of that. Can’t force my brain to work. Must be a dream then. Always so stupid in dreams. Yes, must be a dream. He’s sorry he’s a ghost. “‘S’all right, John. I’ll wake up.” John’s frown only deepens. Why doesn’t he speak again? If he’d say more, I could sort it all out. Could I?

“Let’s look at you, my lovely,” he says. “Up love. I’m sorry. Won’t be a moment.” He slides a hand under my shoulder and tugs gently, meaning me to sit up. I do and immediately curl toward him, and tuck my face against his shoulder, touch my forehead to his neck. He’s cold there, too. But I can smell him now. I can’t smell him in the dreams, and a ghost wouldn’t have a smell. That is rubbish, isn’t it? Ghost? Trying to tell myself why that’s obviously absolute nonsense, but can’t remember the reasons. I can smell him now, and he smells wrong, all wrong. Acid and salt and hardly like my John at all. He must be ill, then. Quite ill. Something’s off, but I can’t help thinking it isn’t that.

Not only that, anyway. No, it isn’t him. It’s me. I’m ill.

My John holds me when I clutch at him. Strokes my back and my hair, and I shut my eyes and grit my teeth. “It’s all right, my love,” he tells me. Don’t know what that means. Why shouldn’t it be all right? And also, it isn’t. Eventually (could not say how long, if my life depended on it), John eases me up against the headboard. Keep my eyes squeezed shut, and a moment later, John tells me to open my mouth. I do, without opening my eyes, and John (I suppose) puts something plastic into it. I must fall asleep (can’t be a dream, then; one does not sleep in dreams). No. Not asleep. Or I wasn’t, then I was. Then I wasn’t again? Muddled.

It’s a thermometer; my face is not beeping. But I don’t really know that until John withdraws the plastic thing (the thermometer) and says, “Forty point one. Well. That’s a bit not good.” Begin to recollect distantly that John is cross with me, at the moment (impossible something?). Feel utterly exhausted at that thought.

“Sorry,” I tell him, but I can barely hear myself. Burns to speak. Keep forgetting that. Feel John lean in and then something soft and dry and cool on my forehead. A kiss.

“I’ll sort you out, lovely,” John tells me. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” There’s a little rattle of a pill bottle next to me, and next moment John is pressing something cool and damp into my hand. Glass of water. Holding it rather makes me shiver; it’s so cold. Deliciously cold.

I drain half of it in one draught, and John chuckles nervously. It rather burned as well, but I want more anyway. “Take this,” he says, touching a pair of pills against my damp lips. I open my mouth to accept them and wash them down with the rest of the water. “Back in a moment,” John says, pressing another kiss to my cheek after he’s watched me swallow the pills. “Cold compresses.”

Hate that idea, but don’t have the energy to cling onto him or to ask him to stay. I slouch down and pull the bedclothes over my head. The room is freezing, and I can feel gooseflesh coming on my arms and shoulders. John returns shortly. I don’t hear him come in. Must have fallen asleep. He gently folds back the bed clothes and rolls me from my side onto my back. I look up into John’s face, quite balefully I suppose because he gives me a little sympathetic grimace before he begins to strip off my pyjamas.

They’re clinging with sweat, and they peel away slowly like wet scabs. Shut my eyes. Don’t like to watch. He’s wearing a sort of solemn Doctor Watson expression now, and he does not look enough like my John. I want to make a joke. Make him laugh. That sneeze of a laugh. Can’t think of anything. Can’t think. Infuriating (no, not really)(too tired)(will be infuriated later; make note of it).

I drift in and out of sleep while John dabs me with a cold cloth. My face, my neck, my chest. His free hand sits on my shoulder until I reach for it, and then he squeezes mine rhythmically as he works. He holds a glass to my lips when he’s finished, and I take a long drink. Then John tugs gently at my shoulder again, and wraps me in something dry and silky when I sit up. “Put this on, love,” he tells me. My dressing gown. No, it’s his dressing gown. And, oh lovely, it smells of him. His proper smell. Lovely. Lovely.

I push my arms through the sleeves and settle myself back on my pillow (John has plumped and turned it, so that it’s dry and cool now)(he thinks of everything). John curls up behind me and pulls the top sheet up to my chin. “Rest now,” he says, kissing the back of my neck. “I’m right here.”


	326. Chapter 326

"Oh hullo. You're awake. How are you feeling? Wait, hang on. Here. Drink this, first."  
"...Ah. Thank you."  
"All right?"  
"Better."  
"Good. Let's check your temperature, then...thirty eight point two. Well, that's much better, isn't it. You, er, went a bit loopy. When you were awake."  
"Did I?"  
"Er, yes. You kept complaining that there was a bird in the room, and asked me if I couldn't do something about it because it was keeping you awake."  
"And there was no bird."  
"Ha, no. No bird."  
"Well, that's good. Thank you for keeping the birds away from me, in my weakened state."  
"Ah well, that's me. John Watson, Chief Holmes Defender and Imaginary Bird Vanquisher."  
"I'm a lucky man."  
"Yeah, you have your moments. Erm. Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John?"  
"I'm really sorry for what I said before."  
"Don't mention it."  
"Well, I do mention it. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."  
"Well. It's true, anyway."  
"It isn't true. Not a bit of it. Erm. Really, it isn't. You're lovely, and I was completely out of order."  
"Not completely."  
"Yes, completely. Now, I know that look. Don't make me fetch Mean John."  
"From retirement? You'd never get him up here. He adores Sussex."  
"He'd do it for me. I'm on his good side."  
"Oh small wonder, that. Everyone thinks well of you. Erm, John, I've been meaning to thank you."  
"Thank me? What for?"  
"For going into all those skips. I know I didn't show it at the time, but I do understand that I have been. Distinguished."  
"Ha, right, well. Only for you, love."  
"I was quite. Moved. When I had the chance to think about it."  
"And then I ruined it."  
"Well, you were right."  
"No, I wasn't."  
"Don't argue with me in my weakened state, John. I haven't the strength."  
"Fine, fine. Save your strength. Can I get you some more tea?"  
"No, John. Thank you, but I think I'll try and go back to sleep now."  
"Good. Wait, hang on. Take these first."  
"Thank you, John. Erm, John?"  
"Yes, lovely?"  
"Is it too much to ask for you to sit with me a bit longer?"  
"No, love. Of course not. Here I am."

...

"Do you know what day it is?"  
"Tuesday?"  
"Erm, no. First of all, it's Friday."  
"Oh, is it?"  
"Yes. Anyway, no, not Tuesday. Nor Friday."  
"Now I'm confused. You've just said it is Friday."  
"Well yes, but that's not what I meant."  
"How can it be more than one day at a time?"  
"I know what you're doing."  
"What I'm doing?"  
"Oh never mind. I got you these chocolates. Here."  
"Oh thank you, John. How thoughtful."  
"You're not going to ask what the occasion is?"  
"Overgrown Baby Day?"  
"Ha, right. Bang on, love."  
"As usual."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The occasion John is referring to is Valentine's Day <3


	327. Chapter 327

“Beautiful, beautiful.” Sherlock muttered, looking up at my face. Or rather up at the underside of my chin. We were sat on the sofa because he was bored of the bedroom and had threatened to set fire to the bed, in order to ‘liven us up’. Well I was sat on the sofa, and he was lying with his legs lolling over the opposite arm and his head in my lap.

I chuckled, “You are hallucinating again, love,” I told him.

“No, John, no.” He reached up and tapped my chin heavily with his index finger. “You are as beautiful as...erm...as you are derelict.” And with his other arm, he aimed a jab at my ribs.

“Derelict?” I asked, deflecting his jabbing elbow with my own.

“Yes, I am depending on you for sustenance.” And he bounced an eyebrow at me and opened his mouth.

“Ah yes,” I said. I reached into the bowl of grapes we were sharing, twisted one off the bunch, and held it to his mouth. He took it delicately, catching my fingers a bit with his lips when he did. Intentionally, no doubt. His mouth was chapped but soft and quite hot. From his fever. “If this is a seduction attempt, you can put it away,” I told him. “You’re saving your strength, remember? Convalescing?”

Sherlock swallowed the grape whole and bounced his eyebrows at me. “Vain,” he said silkily. He is always indecently gorgeous but somehow even more so when he’s got a fever. He’s all high colouring and bright eyes and hot skin. And what’s even more indecent is for a doctor to be gawping at a man with a fever. No matter how pretty he is.

“Show off,” I said. “Stop doing that. At least not while you’re lying flat on your back. You’re going to choke.”

“Oh John, you know I never choke,” he said, just suppressing a smirk. “Talent of mine.”

“First time for everything,” I said.

Sherlock smiled. “More, please,” he said, licking his bottom lip and holding his mouth open again. I dropped a couple of grapes into my own mouth before nudging one into Sherlock’s. His eyes fixed on mine, Sherlock quite intentionally caught my finger in his lips, and I felt his overhot tongue flutter briefly against the pad of my fingertip.

I pulled my hand away, laughing and bounced a grape off his face. “I know not even you’re up for it, when you’ve got a temperature of thirty eight, love.”  
Sherlock smiled sadly, felt for the grape in my lap, and ate it when he found it. “Trying to entertain myself,” he said. “I’m bored. Aren’t you bored of me?”

“Never,” I said firmly.

“Really?” Sherlock actually sounded mildly surprised.

“Really really.”

“Mm well, that’s inspiring. Though we already know all the best things I do are in your service, John.”

“Never mind my service for the moment, lovely. Just relax and get better, and we’ll have loads of fun when you do. In meantime, I’ll entertain you.”

“Will you?”

“Of course. I’m yours to command.”

“Goodness,” Sherlock’s smirk was slowly returning. “That’s a risky proposition.”

“Well Montresor, we like those.”

“Mmmm. So we do, Fortunato.”

...

“Menace.”  
“Flatterer.”  
“You are so pleased with yourself.”  
“Pleased with you, John. Mmm, anyway orgasm is bolstering to the immune response.”  
“But smugness suppresses it.”  
“That is not in accordance with the research I have seen.”  
“Original research, I suppose.”  
“Naturally.”  
“Well, I suspect you’ve got a bit of a confirmation bi-Hey!”  
“Yes? What are you overreacting to now?”  
“Don’t wipe your hands on the sheets!”  
“I didn’t want to get up.”  
“There are tissues on your night table.”  
“Mmph. Too far. I didn’t like to displace you, John.”  
“You’ve left a gigantic smeary handprint.”  
“I have rather large hands.”  
“Believe me, I know.”  
“Anyway, I warned you against dark bedding. And now you see my point.”  
“You want to be able to wipe your hands on the sheets with impunity, mm? I’m afraid you don’t have my sympathy.”  
“You are notoriously unsympathetic.”  
“Ha, right. Oh and now there’ll be a sticky patch on my side of the bed.”  
“Not when it’s dry.”  
“Right, get up. We are changing the sheets.”  
“No.”  
“Yes. Get up, Sherlock.”  
“John, have mercy on me. I’m ill. Hem.”  
“That was the worst fake cough I’ve ever heard. It was mainly giggling.”  
“Well I’ve just expended my energy reserves for the next twenty eight hours.”  
“And whose idea was that?”  
“Mine, obviously. But that doesn’t change the facts of the situation. Hush now. I'm going back to sleep.”  
“You’re about to find yourself rolled out of bed, you know.”  
“Oh I am, am I?”  
“Yes. You are.”  
“Ha! That sort of rough-housing when I’m poorly is beneath even y-gaaaaah! John!”  
“You were saying?”  
“Fiend.”  
“Flatterer.”


	328. Chapter 328

John is asleep. Can't decide if I'm pleased or frustrated about that. He was up late last night, reading to me. Poe at first, then cummings when we got tired of Poe. Surprisingly appropriate. I like the jaggedness; John likes the sweetness(!) When he produced the book(because of my expression, I think), he extracted a solemn promise from me to take the secret of its existence to my grave. With the implication--naturally-- that if I could not perform the former, I would be meeting with the latter sooner than expected. Brief verbal tussle ensued on the advantages to me in such an arrangement(predictable outcome)(Mmmm). We can feel a spate of restlessness coming on. The pair of us. I assume he can feel it, as he has been carefully tending to my mood. Though perhaps that is only because I'm ill. I have been carefully tending to my mood. as well. Satisfying to exert myself on John's account, even when it's difficult. Like stretching a stiff muscle.

But it's close in the flat, so close. It needs an airing; we've both been in it for too long at a time. And John is asleep, curled on the bed, his hands tucked under his chin. He's got Skip at his knees. Very picturesque. Been watching his expression flicker in his sleep (lovely, lovely) but am getting restless. My foot is bouncing. Get up and pause for a moment to consider before pulling on my coat and slipping out as quietly as I can. Pull the door to so slowly, so gently. Think of Poe's maniac from "The Tell-Tale Heart" and swallow a fit of giggles. ("You would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in!") Go downstairs and out the front door. Lean against the railing by the front steps, and gulp cold air. There's a tiny twinge in my ribs. Like nostalgia. Draw a long, defiant breath. My nose begins to run. Troublesome appendage. Reach under my coat into my (John's) dressing gown pocket for a tissue to dab at it. My mobile goes. Pull it out and look at it. Text from John.

If I have to tie you up to keep you in this bed, I will.

Swallow a shiver. Smile. Pocket my phone,turn and go back upstairs. Slowly. Tired. Infuriating. Been sleeping all day. Hate being ill.

John is just as picturesque as he was when I left him, though his position has shifted. He's stretched on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, stroking Smoke, who is sprawled on his belly but otherwise taking no notice of him. Skip's lying across his ankle. Feel a little surge of possessiveness and laugh aloud at myself. John grins at me. I flop onto the bed, and John tuts at me when the cats scatter.

I curl against him, and he tugs at the lapel of my coat. "Off with this, please," he says. "We agreed you'd keep the coat, but it'd never touch the bed again so long as we both shall live. Skippy." Shrug off the coat and chuck it on the floor. "Very nice," John says with a little laugh. "Tidy." But he pulls me to him and noses my hair. Lovely. "Mmm, went out of doors in your dressing gown again, didn't you? And while you're ill, too. Naughty."

Settle against his chest and tuck his arm around me before answering, "How did you know that, witch?" Obvious. Only want him to say it aloud.

He inhales (lovely) before he replies in a low voice, "Your hair is cold, lovely. And I can smell it on you."

Shiver a bit, don’t bother to hide it. “If you’ve done chiding me, I’ll have my hello kiss, derelict.” John kisses me, laughs, and kisses me again. Lovely. He hitches me a bit closer to him and sighs warm on my scalp(lovely!). I can hear the warm throb of his heart. More of a feeling than a sound, really. Think briefly and wistfully of my stethoscope, but too comfortable as I am to go and look for it. John shuts his eyes and begins to draw his miraculously deep breaths. Shifts his hand up to my scalp to move his fingers lazily through my hair. Intending to lull me, no doubt. Witchcraft. Trickery. I won’t be taken in.

John’s tshirt has rucked up a bit, and his hipbone is exposed in the gap between the hem of it and the top of his pyjama bottoms. There’s a freckle on it. New one. Lovely. Will definitely want to taste that one. It looks highly appetising. Don’t want to come out from under his arm just now, though (not sleepy! not going to sleep!). Later, later. I’ve got time. Stroke it with my thumb instead (butterflies taste with their feet)(for the most part, that is not a characteristic I envy, but I do have my moments). I am not going to fall asleep, but John does smell wonderful. Clean laundry, that fleshy, buttery smell, and that little dab of evergreen. Mmm. Mmmm. Shut my eyes and continue to stroke the new freckle. And I’m not going to fall asleep, but oh how John’s chest rises and falls beneath me.


	329. Chapter 329

Sherlock was lying head downward on the bed, with his feet propped on the headboard and his legs crossed at the ankle. He held his little pad of staff paper out in front of him, scribbling in it.

“Feeling inspired?” I asked, nudging him in the side with my foot.

Sherlock put the end of his pencil in his mouth and patted my foot with the hand that it freed. “Clearly,” he said around the pencil.

I smiled. “By anything in particular?” Sherlock smiled at me, then resumed writing. “Did you have one of your violin dreams?” I pressed.

“One of your violin dreams, John,” he answered without looking up from his writing. “Heaven forfend I bite the hand that feeds me, but do shut up. You’re going to drive away my idea with your jabbering. Oh, help yourself to the biscuit tin, though, if it’ll keep you from sulking. Been quite inspired on that front, too.”

“Sulking?!” I nudged him with my foot again, and he tapped it heavily with his pencil.

“Don’t start anything you can’t finish, John,” he said, waggling the pencil at me. “Remember I’m armed.” I laughed hard and long enough at that remark that Sherlock had trouble keeping a menacing scowl pinned to his face. When he began to giggle as well, I kissed him. Then I leaned down off the edge of the bed (Sherlock put the pencil back in his mouth to hold onto my ankles) to grope for the biscuit tin.

 

...

 

John,  
You are polishing your shoes (the brogues) and humming a song I don’t know. You’re marking time with the brush. You lot make quite a handsome foursome. I feel a bit jealous.  
S

 

John,  
Your dressing gown smells of me, now. Can’t decide how to feel about that.  
S

 

John,  
You’ve got a hole in the left elbow of the jumper you’ve got on. I wonder if you notice me watching it. If you do, you are pretending not to. It’s a small hole, about the size of the very tip of my little finger. Every time I see it, I want to force my finger into it. That little dab of your flesh is so inviting.  
S

 

John,  
How were you ever invented?  
S

 

John,  
You look wonderfully solemn when you take my temperature. What sort of Doctor Watson thoughts are you thinking?  
S

 

John,  
You ought already to be aware of it, but in case you are not, I will tell you that your voice is the best sound in the world. Unfortunately for you, this means that I am going to have you reading to me whenever your hands are free enough to hold a book. Can’t think how it’s never occurred to me to ask before now. We've loads of time to make up.  
S

 

John,  
This artificial banana cough medicine you have been pouring down my throat night and day (since I finished the cold capsules) is a sin and a crime. I’d burn it, if I didn’t think that’d summon a demon to the sitting room.  
S

 

John,  
I want orange pekoe. Why isn’t there any?  
S

 

John,  
The Roger socks you commissioned for me are indeed cerulean miracles that are better than anything else I have ever had on my feet. You can stop crowing about it now.  
S

 

John,  
Why has Molly Hooper just texted me an image of a frowning cat tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle on its head? What have you been telling her?  
S

John,  
Been texting Lestrade. Solved two cases right from bed and another from the sofa. Coat cupboard?  
S

 

John,  
If you say the word ‘soup’ to me one more time, I will accept it, just so I can tip it over your head.  
S

 

John,  
Had a dream that I was sleeping on a bed of used tissues. Woke up to find that was very nearly the case.  
S

John,  
I need to taste you right this moment, but you are at work. Selfish.  
S

 

John,  
The whole world seems to be mentholated, and I’m going to have to burn it down. Come and sit in the airing cupboard with me until the apocalypse is over. I have books and snacks.  
S

 

John,  
I know it’s not been long. Not relatively speaking. Only a few days, which is usually a very short time. Still I feel as though my life has become a doze. I have been doing nothing but sleep for days. And now I refuse. It is three o’clock in the morning (3:07), my vision is sparkling with sleepiness, and I have promised myself that I will watch the sun come up. I want to wake you, but if you know that I am awake, you will lull me back to sleep, you witch. So I’m writing you a note and listening to your breath. There are exactly six seconds from inhale to exhale, which I’m finding soporific. That ought to annoy me, but I’m too bloody sleepy. I will wake you when the sun comes up, and we will watch it rise together, and you will tut me back to sleep with your hand in my hair.  
S


	330. Chapter 330

Fairy cakes.  
-SH

 

Is that my new pet name?

 

I require fairy cakes. At least two dozen. Do that thing you do.  
-SH

 

That thing I do?

 

Not baking?

 

No, of course not. When have you ever baked anything?  
-SH

 

Get me some fairy cakes. From a cake shop.  
-SH

 

Anything else, your majesty?

 

Snitty attitude. As much as you can manage. Relentlessly and pointlessly.  
-SH

 

Check, check, and double check.

 

Where would I be without you?  
-SH

 

Fairycakeless

 

That isn't a word.  
-SH

 

Well as the king of fairy cakes, you have a certain amount of authority over these things. Maybe you can wrangle me some leeway.

 

You love to make me sound insane, don't you?  
-SH

 

I'm not touching that one.

 

What do you need two dozen fairy cakes for, love? Are we having a tiny party?

 

Not overexerting ourselves, are we?

 

It's an experiment, John.  
-SH

 

Are you down to 37?

 

Near enough. 37.5  
-SH

 

Then you should be in bed.

 

I'm fine, John.  
-SH

 

Don't you want to get better?

 

I am better.  
-SH

 

Fine, if I've got to play placate the pedant, I will. Don't you want to get well?

 

It's a virus. It'll be done with me when it's done with me.  
-SH

 

It'd be done with you quicker, if you'd stop fussing about with experiments and cases and staying up all night and just get some rest.

 

I'm bored, John. BORED. I can't just sit idle. It's exhausting.  
-SH

 

Rest is exhausting?

 

Are you being difficult on purpose?  
-SH

 

Are you?

 

...

 

Fine, what kind?

 

Lemon. Chocolate icing.  
-SH

That’s important, actually.  
-SH

 

That’s what she used.  
-SH

 

She?

 

Alibi testing.  
-SH

 

Right.

 

You’re not poisoning yourself, are you?

 

Of course not.  
-SH

 

Just thought I’d ask. Just to be sure.

 

For god’s sake, John. I’m not a complete infant.  
-SH

 

Sorry. Am I being that way again?

 

Yes.  
-SH

Sorry. See you in a bit.

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

Thank you.  
-SH

 

Of course, love. :)

...

 

When I got in with the little box of fairy cakes, Sherlock was sat in his chair. Not very comfortably. His foot jiggled in front of him, and his fingers tapped the arm. He looked about to bound out of it and stride around the room. He didn’t, though. He looked round as I came in, his brow drawn, his mouth tight and fretful. “Too late,” he said, with a little huff. Sometimes it’s funny when he’s like that. Somehow it wasn’t that time. “She confessed. I had it right but,” he shrugged. “I’d have liked to have proved it. Pass the time.”

“Bad luck, love,” I said, crossing the room to kiss him hello. “You’ll be brilliant next time, mm? And at least we can console ourselves by eating ourselves sick on these.” I raised the box, but Sherlock only frowned at it.

“Not hungry,” he said.

“You haven’t been much hungry lately, have you, love?” I pressed my free hand to his forehead. It was still a bit too warm. “That’ll be the fever. It does that. Have you eaten today?” Sherlock shrugged again and dropped his eyes, and I tried not to sigh. “I’ll fix you something. Tea? And soldiers?”

Sherlock ducked out from under my hand on his forehead and got up from his chair. “I think I’ll go to bed, actually. Good night.”

I watched him go, rather surprised, and he was already out of sight before I called out an answer, “Right. Yes. Good night.”


	331. Chapter 331

“Thirty-seven exactly. Congratulations.”  
“Thank you.”  
“How do you feel?”  
“Better. Good.”  
“Good, love. Really pleased to hear it. Erm ha, what are you laughing at?”  
“You’ve got chocolate on your chin.”  
“Oh, have I?”  
“Mmm.”  
“Have I got it?”  
“No...no. No, no. No, forgive me John, but I think it’s out of range of your tongue.”  
“Get it for me, will you?...Oh ahahh, I meant with a napkin, not with your mouth.”  
“Mmmm, no you didn’t.”  
“Well. Maybe not.”  
“Certainly not. In fact, I suspect you planted that icing.”  
“No, only I like the fairy cakes nearly as much as I like you.”  
“Goodness.”  
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t poison them?”  
“I wasn’t going to poison them, John.”  
“Ruin them.”  
“Well. That’s neither here nor there.”  
“Ha, right. Well. I’ve got a bit of dashing about to do today. Not the fun kind, sadly. And I need to drop in on Harry, so I thought you probably wouldn’t want anything to do with that.. Are you all right on your own for a bit?”  
“If a sinkhole opens up in the sitting room, I will text you.”  
“Good then. See you in a bit, lovely.”  
“If not sooner.”  
“Kiss for luck?”  
“...Mmm luck?”  
“You’ll see.”  
“That’s intriguing.”  
“We like to be intrigued, don’t we Montresor?”  
“So we do, Fortunato.”

...

John returns to the flat well after dark. When he comes in, he's smiling, but there's a frown underneath that rather bleeds through it. It's a common enough expression, trying to smile over a frown, but on John, it requires an immediate investigation. I'm out of my seat before he's even gotten out his usual, "Hullo love," and we meet in the middle of the room, both eager to speak and to listen.

But neither of us does speak for a bit. John puts one arm round my waist and his hand on the back of my neck, and for a moment, his smile is so vivid. As if he loves to look at me. There is something incandescent about such naked affection. I can hardly look right at it. I do for as long as I can, then stoop and hide my face in his neck and shoulder. He smells wonderful (evergreen and wool and shirt starch and delicious John)(mmmm I want to taste him)(not the moment for it) and his skin is just slightly cool. I sigh, and my own hot breath blows back against my face. He shifts his hand from my neck to my hair and begins to stroke my back. I sigh again, and he squeezes me more tightly.

"How are you feeling, lovely?" he asks quietly when the silence has grown almost obtrusive.

I straighten up and shrug. "Well enough. My brain itches." John's hand has slid down to my elbow, and he begins to stroke it with his thumb.

He huffs a sympathetic little laugh. "Yes, I thought perhaps it did," he says. "Maybe you fancy a walk tonight?"

"Do you want a walk, John?"

He nods. "If you're up to it."

"Of course. I'll get my things on."

"Are you hungry?"

Think about it for a moment. "I could eat." Which is true, actually. John smiles and nods "We'll walk somewhere," I suggest. "Shall I text Angelo for a table?"  
John gives me a warm little grin. Lovely. "I'll do it," he says. "You go and get ready." He squeezes my elbow again, and his hand slides reluctantly away. I do love to have him on me.

Go and have a wash. I look horrible. Chapped lips, dark rings under my eyes, and I haven't shaved in two days. Strange how quickly it can happen. The slide from presentable to horrible. Try not to look at my reflection after I’ve finished shaving.

John comes in while I'm cleaning my teeth. He still has that anxious frown flickering under his smile, but his eyes have softened. The worry lines between his eyebrows are smoothing. He smiles at me in the mirror, and I smile back. Spit into the sink and wipe the foam off my chin, "Voyeur," I say.

John grins a proper grin. "I love the way you wipe your mouth," he says, demonstrating with a pass at his own mouth that is somehow both dainty and flamboyant.

"I don't do that!"

He laughs. "Yeah, you do, love. It's-"

"Gorgeous?"

"Right in one."

"Well in fairness, you always say that."

"Not as often as I think it."

We beam at each other for a beat before I tell him, "I'll just be another moment."

"In your own time, love," he says and leaves me to it. Dress rather quickly, trying not to think of how worn I look. New shirt, though. John likes it. He chose it. It’s a sort of carnelian red that I’d never have picked myself.

“Ready?” I ask as I enter the sitting room. In answer, John takes my coat down from the hook and holds it out for me. I let him help me on with it, and he smooths the shoulders and brushes a kiss on my jaw.

“That shirt does look nice,” he remarks as he takes my scarf down from the hook and loops it around my neck. “Your eyes are so green when you wear it.” I kiss him, and I can feel him smile under my mouth just for half a moment. Then he turns and opens the door for me, “After you, lovely.”

Out on the pavement, John offers me his arm. I take it, and we walk along in silence for a bit. Occasionally, he reaches up to stroke my hand on his arm. Can’t stop glancing at him. He looks thoughtful. “I try to be attentive,” John says. It isn’t sudden exactly, but it’s with an air of continuing an ongoing conversation.

I nod, “Yes.”

He strokes my hand again. It seems to be helping him to collect his thoughts. “I understand what you’re giving me. Letting me in to look after you.” He glances at me. Nod again and remain silent. “I don’t mean to,” John’s hand on my hand stills for a moment, then he squeezes it. “I know that you can manage yourself. I know that you don’t let me attend to you because you’re. Helpless. I know that you aren’t literally unable to get on without me.” He clears his throat. “I don’t know if it’s a bit. Stupid. That I’m. No, actually.” He stops walking and looks at me. He’s biting his lip. It’s wrong, I know, that I want to kiss him. It’d be an unpardonable interruption. Hope I’m not letting on in my face. I do want to kiss him, though. “It isn’t stupid to apologise when you’ve been wrong. Sherlock, I’ve been a bit out of sorts and taking my temper out on you and trying to tell myself that I’ve only been a bit firm because you wanted looking after. I’m sorry.”

Drop my chin, quite embarrassed. “I do need you, John.”

“We need each other,” John says firmly. “I don’t get on any better without you than you do without me. I’m not.” He resumes stroking my hand. “I’m not the one who’s got it all worked out, and you don’t go to pieces when I’m not tucking you up in bed and spoon-feeding you broth or what have you. I’m sorry I’ve been treating you like a child.”  
I drop my eyes down to the pavement and nod slowly, still prickling with embarrassment. Intellectually, I am aware that John makes mistakes and has flaws, but it still feels rather treacherous to acknowledge them. That position is hardly fair to him, though. It really isn’t a compliment to imagine a person to be infallible. More a cage. How mortified I’d be if I were trying to apologise to him, and he were staring at his feet like a stupid lump. Force my eyes up to his face (those worried lines between his eyebrows are back)(intolerable). Terribly uncomfortable to be the wronged party. I want to make it all right. Don’t know how.

John shows me, of course. “Forgive me?” he says, when I meet his eyes.

I nod. Kiss him. “Of course.” Kiss him again. He hugs me quite tightly, and when he lets go, his face is shining again. It’s denuding to be looked at that way. So intimate. That naked, incandescent adoration. Like having one’s own private sun. Dazzled as I am, I look back at my John as best I can.


	332. Chapter 332

“It’s raviolo, John! For god’s sake, a single piece is a raviolo!”  
“I am not going to say ‘raviolo.’ It’s ridiculous.”  
“It’s correct!”  
“I’d sound like a tosser.”  
“Instead of an idiot.”  
“At least I don’t say, ‘raviolis’ so count your blessings.”  
“Good god. You wouldn’t dare.”  
“I’ll just have the puttanesca, then, Mr Picky.”  
“Ergh, anchovies.”  
“Shut up. I like anchovies.”  
“Yes, I know you do. Will you give me your olives?”  
“Say ‘a ravioli’ first.”  
“Never.”

...

“You are gorgeous, you know.”  
“How you do go on, John.”  
“You do know, don't you?”  
“I know you’re drunk.”  
“I’m not! I’ve had two glasses.”  
“Drunk on pasta, then.”  
“Ha all right, that I grant. If pasta were intoxicating, I would be drunk. But isn’t, and I’m not, and you are gorgeous.”  
“One of the vaunted benefits of candlelight, I believe. The pasta is inspiring you to floridity, is it?”  
"Your face is."  
"Flatterer."  
"I never flatter you, actually. You hate being flattered."  
"You don't imagine that I like to have my ego stroked, John?"  
"Nah, you only like compliments that are completely sincere and completely without, erm. Expectations."  
"How perceptive you are, John."  
"Well it's been a bit, hasn't it? I'd have to be a complete insensitive clod not to have picked up a few things. Not that I say I'm not a complete clod, mind."  
"You're lovely."  
"So are you. Perhaps I'll take a leaf from your book and write a few monographs. Help me to decide if I should start with the shape of your mouth or with the lovely colour your neck turns when I pull your hair quite hard, right at the top. It’s a very particular colour. Don’t know that there’s a name for it, exactly."  
"I'm sure I'm not qualified to address a dilemma of that nature."  
"Oh aren't we suddenly modest?"  
"Never modest, John. Only, hem, your perspective in these situations is rather different from mine. I’m afraid I am not educated enough have an opinion on either topic."  
"I suppose you'll want a change of subject, then."  
"Mmm if you like. You know me. I'm flexible."  
"Indeed. Ha. Well. Aren't you going to ask me how my day was?"  
"Have I been rude in neglecting to? I beg your pardon."  
"No, only if you had, you might have found out something interesting."  
"Something to do with your sister?"  
"No, Harry's doing quite well, but I wasn't talking about Harry."  
"What then?"  
"Mmm we’ll see.”  
“Will we?”  
“Of course we will.”  
“And when will we see?”  
“Some time.”  
“Infuriating man.”  
“Am I infuriating? You look delighted.”  
“Look again.”  
“Believe me love, I can’t tear myself away.”


	333. Chapter 333

I’m sat in my chair tuning my violin and pretending I don’t notice John watching me. He’s lying on the sofa, ostensibly reading the paper, but his eyes flick to me every few seconds. The paper is sagging in his hands; he isn’t even trying to hide his face with it. Every time his eyes land on me, he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Not pointedly, as he often does, but absently. It’s a rather hungry expression, made more interesting by the fact that it does genuinely seem to be absent-minded. As if he’s only partly aware that he can’t keep his eyes off me. Or as if he’s so inside his own physicality that he forgets to think of what it looks like. Lovely. He is so fascinating when he’s like that. I wonder what he’s thinking about. I want to hear his thoughts. I want to climb inside his brain and unspool it. Smooth it out. Have a good, long, leisurely look.

He’s looked at me that way since I met him. Since the second time I laid eyes on him. That hungrily admiring look. Tempting to scoff at my former self for not knowing how to read it, even as I’m still unraveling its nuances now. I love it when he looks at me that way. Makes me feel quick and clever and cocky (we like that). Makes me wonder how I’ll entertain us next.

Give the D peg a final tweak, then shoulder my violin and play through the scale once, quick as I can. John starts the tiniest bit at the noise, and I settle my jaw a little further into my chin rest, bowing my head to hide the little grin I can't swallow. On a whim, play the first couple of notes from my newest composition (almost not quite a composition yet; no name for it)(recent illness has interfered with its progress)(infuriating).

Glance at John. He’s wearing rather a knowing smile. Can’t decide if it’s because he’s heard it before (has he?) or because he recognises it for what it is (does he?). John tends to fixate on my nascent compositions. Though in fairness, I do all I can to encourage his fixations. Difficult to tell how well informed he is about this particular seedling without asking (which rather strips the fun from the question)(so exciting to discover!). We catch eyes, and John raises his eyebrows at me. Here is invitation enough. I set my violin in its case, cross to the sofa, and drop myself onto it next to John. Well. Mostly on top of him. Perhaps a bit heavier than I meant to drop; he grunts on impact (mmmmm). John tosses away the newspaper without complaint, and one of his arms goes round my waist at once. He drops his left leg off the sofa in order to accommodate my hips. I tuck my head against his neck (mmm his smell) and his free hand goes to my hair.

“Hullo lovely,” he says, brushing a little kiss on the top of my head.

“Mm John.” John wraps his right leg around my left and begins to stroke my hip. We lie silently that way for perhaps a long while or perhaps a short while. When I’m in this sort of mood, John’s hands on me send me into rather a reverie.

“Are you awake, love?” he asks after a bit.

“Hmm? Yes, I’m awake.”

“Sleep, if you’re sleepy,” John’s fingers grow firmer in my scalp, as if to emphasise his words. “I was only wondering.”

“I’m not sleeping!” My vehemence makes him giggle, and his giggle (I can feel little huffs of his breath on my hair) makes me giggle. “Mmmm John, you have something to tell me,” I say when we have collected ourselves (relatively speaking).

John taps his index finger against his mouth, “Do I?” He’s only pretending to consider; he knows just what I mean. Delightful, infuriating (flirtatious).

Draw back a bit before I reply so that I can look into his face. His eyes are half-shut, and he’s wearing a lazy, little smile. I kiss him, and his smile broadens. “You were going to tell me what you were up to when you were gone the other day.”

John separates a curl from the tangle of them at the back of my neck and worries at it, smoothing it around his finger and tugging it a bit (mmm). “Was I?”

“Mm yes,” I kiss his chin, drop my head down against his shoulder, and speak against his neck. I can feel my stubble catch his skin a bit. “You can’t bear to keep things from me because you adore me.”

John squirms, laughs, and accedes, “Well, that’s certainly true. Mmm, it wasn’t much honestly. Just finding a few little things for a game I thought of.”

“A game, John?”

“Mmm,” John agrees. I can feel his throat buzz when he hums his answer. Lovely. Nip at John’s throat lightly. He squirms again, sighs, and gives my hair another nice, little tug.

“Is it a game to do with pulling my hair?”

John chuckles. “Mmmmno,” he says. His voice is so warm and smirk-sticky. Like something you could lick, “We already know lots of those, don’t we? It’s a new game. Well. Sort of new. We’ve never played this way before.”

I rock against him with (mostly with) impatience. “Well, what sort of game, John?”

I feel (I think I do) John smile against my hair before he answers. He is so pleased with himself; he loves to play with me (!) When John is in this sort of mood, he positively savours his own smugness. Rolls it over his tongue like a boiled sweet. “Oh just a little game for the next time we’re bored.”

“A nice game?” Stupid question, but I want him to say more. There are little curls of impatience diffusing through my middle. Though they are certainly not entirely to do with John’s teasing over his new game (mmmm).

“Of course a nice game, lovely. I wouldn’t want to play it with you, if it weren’t nice.”

“Can’t I have it now, John?”

John takes hold of my hips and hitches mine up against his. Quickly, firmly. Nearly jarringly. We like that. “Well lovely,” he drawls, “You’re not bored right now, are you?” I must confess (though it’s obvious, I think)(obvious to John)(proximity)(ahem) that I am not bored in the least.


	334. Chapter 334

"Will it offend you if I tell you that was a tiny bit sexy?"  
"Not at all. You are a known barbarian. It's unsurprising to me that physical violence has that effect on you."  
"You're one for talking."  
"Yes, we are a pair of barbarians. Only I manage to play my barbarism rather closer to the chest. Sadly you are a bit too much of a barbarian for discretion."  
"Mmm you know how to flatter a bloke."  
"Oh indeed. Flattery has always been one of my specialities."  
"Though as a doctor and your husband, I suppose I ought to tell register my official disapproval of your using your head for a weapon."  
"It worked well enough. And you don't look so disapproving."  
"Officially I disapprove. And if you don't bash your face into other people’s teeth, you don't wind up with a great gash in your forehead."  
"I used what was near at hand at the time, John. And it isn't a gash. Only two stitches."  
"Ha, I love that you’ve just referred to your head as being a thing near at hand.”  
“Well, it was.”  
“Is it wrong I think that scar’s going to look really good on you?”  
“Lots of the things we like are wrong.”  
“Mm, indeed”  
“I’ll tell you about a bit of my own barbarism. Even the score.”  
“Oh, do.”  
“I’m very much enjoying the sight of you all muddy like that.”  
“Ha, yes. I noticed.”  
“I thought you did, but I supposed you’d want ot hear me say it aloud.”  
“Bit difficult to mistake your coat cupboard looks, Montresor.”  
“Oh likewise, Fortunato.”

...

“Sherlock.”  
“Mmm?”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Mmm?”  
“You’re a bad man.”  
“Mmmmmm.”  
“We’re meant to be, ahhh, getting ready.”  
“Mmm.”  
“We ahhh ahhh we said we’d meet Greg and we still need to mm-ahh have a shower.”  
“Mmmm John, we can spare a few minutes, can’t we?”  
“Oh, go on then.”  
“I’d hoped you’d say that. Now I don’t mind you making noise, John. In fact, I'd encourage you always to make as much as you like. Ha, excepting when it'd get us arrested, mm? But we’ll get on quicker, if you’d stop complaining and, ah, focus. And you should pull my hair.”  
“Bossy.”  
“Mmmmmm.”

...

Hullo love,   
I was quite looking forward to our new little game. The one you don’t know about yet. It’s almost a pity things got so interesting so suddenly. Well. No, it isn’t. We like to be brilliant together, don’t we? And you were so brilliant today. No surprise in that, though. You’re always brilliant. Even when you’re drooling onto my shoulder and squirming in your sleep (as you are right now; you’ve just kicked me). You are my wonder.   
Yours,   
John

...

John,   
I believe many, many things about our relationship with a fervent, unparalleled, nigh-religious zeal. One of the chief is that we will spend our lives trying (generally successfully) to entertain each other. I am learning to be patient for our new games. I suppose I am growing steadily worse at affecting anything like frustration or concealing my sincere delighted anticipation when you tease me, John. We do enjoy our apéritifs, don’t we? I am eager to enjoy what you have prepared for me, but if you ask me to wait, I can wait. I have my whole life to savour you, after all.   
S


	335. Chapter 335

“My John.”  
“My Sherlock.”  
"Mmm, something lovely is in my near future, is it, John?”  
"Did I say that?"  
"I deduced that you were thinking it."  
"Oh, clever you. Are you accusing me of fortune telling, lovely?”  
“You are a notorious practitioner of witchcraft, John.”  
“If I tell you your future, I suppose it’ll earn me a pressing then, won't it?”  
“Mmmm, indeed, John. But do go on anyway.”  
“Oh, I intend to.”  
“We like pressings.”  
“We do, yes. What makes you think I’m about to predict something lovely in your near future?”  
“Apart from your predilection for soothsaying in general?”  
“Ha, apart from that, yeah.”  
“Mmm, actually it’s because I heard you singing in the shower this morning. Songs from John Watson before breakfast always mean lovely things for Sherlock Holmes in the near future. And now we’ve had our breakfast, and it’s time for the lovely things.”  
“Ha, listen to you. Sounds to me like you’re the one soothsaying. Witch.”  
“I suppose that means you’re going to press me.”  
“Mmm, within an inch of your life.”

...

“Well now I need another shower, Sherlock. This is your doing, you know.”  
“I would have warned you, but you muffled me rather suddenly.”  
“You weren’t expecting a muffling?”  
“You well know that I was inviting a muffling, but it came before I had the opportunity to convey this particular piece of information to you.”  
“No matter. I’ll have two showers in a morning, and you can come in with me for this one. You need one, too.”  
“True.”  
“And then after that perhaps, we can play our new game.”  
“Lovely.”  
“Lovely.”

...

“I love it so much when you sing to me that I’m afraid to ask for it outright.” I tell John little secrets in the shower sometimes. Tiny things that I ought to be able to speak aloud. Or perhaps their being tiny is what works against them. They seem too small to say. In the shower, my voice is all but drowned.

John looks so relaxed and happy, squinting against the spray with fat drops of water running off his (criminally) long eyelashes and the end of his nose and his lovely chin (I want to suck the wetness off his chin)(think briefly of pushing my tongue into that cleft)(mmmmmm). There’s a thick, white smear of conditioner clinging to the rim of his left ear, and it makes me want to spill secrets into it. He looks so receptive.

“Hmm?” John pauses in his singing and looks at me expectantly, a wide, lazy grin still hanging on his face like a slung hammock. I shake my head, and John reaches up and pushes the dripping fringe off my forehead and kisses me. His mouth is wet (of course) and it tastes so clean. Run my tongue along his slicked bottom lip then suck it gently, reveling in its John-ness. It doesn’t taste of sweat or coffee or toothpaste or even of me. Just John. Wet John. A delicacy.

John hums against my mouth in mildly surprised pleasure, and he steadies himself with a hand on my waist. I draw back to look at him, and there’s a little note of bemusement in his answering smile. John gives me a quick squeeze with the hand that’s still pressed to my side.

“Get on your knees, and I’ll wash your hair,” he offers after he’s decided that I’m not going to bestir myself to eloquence. I do want to say something lovely to him. I want to, but (as is so often the case) I’ve had to make my peace with being giddy and stupid for the moment.  
I turn my back and sink carefully to my knees, and John resumes his song as I do, “‘...and now I need you here to clear my mind all the time...’”

“Sometimes I’m so happy that it terrifies me,” I lean back into John’s fingers against my scalp and shut my eyes. It’s probably my imagination that his hands grow firmer on me when I speak. He couldn’t have heard me. And though I’m happy as I’ve ever been, I can’t quite manage to be terrified here. There’s warm foam running down the back of my neck. John’s strong, steady hands are on me, and his knee bobs into my back, as he sways to his own singing(!).

And in my ear, his sweet, raspy voice, quite clear through the sound of the spray, “‘...oh because you are the best thing...’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song John is singing is called "You Are the Best Thing" by Ray LaMontagne.


	336. Chapter 336

After we’ve dried off and gotten dressed, John announces that it’s time for our game. I follow him into the sitting room, relishing the little curls of anticipation in my stomach. John’s bearing shifts a bit when he’s guiding me through a game he’s made for me. It’s magnetic. He is always magnetic, of course. Still it’s a bit different when he’s made a game for me. Don’t know how to describe it, exactly. I don’t have the vocabulary (it’ll be along in its own time).

John points to the sofa, “Sit please,” he says and turns to mount the stairs to the empty bedroom without waiting to see me to comply. His casually commanding air is somewhat at odds with the damp, vaguely sleepy smell still coming off him from our shower. I do sit and rub my palms against my knees to vent my impatience while I wait for him to return.

John comes back a minute or two (ninety-nine seconds) later with a small brown box, of the sort that stationery is sold in. He sits next to me on the sofa, near enough that our legs brush each other. He does not hand me the box.

“Do you remember when we went to the museum?”

“And you bought the silk scarf in the gift shop,” I say with a fond smile of recollection. “And then I invented number twenty-three, which is really number eight with me blindfolded.” Perhaps that’s what this game is about. What number are we up to on the chart now? Twenty-six? I wonder what’s in the box.

John laughs and leans over to kiss me on the cheek, “Yes, there was that,” he agrees, giving my knee a little squeeze (my knee properly, no higher)(not decisive; not encouraging). “Do you remember anything apart from the scarf?”

“Of course I do.”

“You remember the paintings then? Telling me about the paintings?”

“Oh, the deductions? Did you enjoy that?”

“I really did.” John kisses me again and shifts the box back and forth in his hands. I can hear the soft sound of stiff paper sliding about inside of it. “I thought we might play again. Here’s our home version.” He prises off the lid and pulls out a thin sheaf of postcards. He's only skimmed off the top few; the box is still nearly full.

“You and that shop,” I say.

“Hush,” John’s got a little grin in his voice. “It was to your advantage last time, wasn’t it?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Then you may have fun this time as well.” There’s something quite interesting in his voice. Can’t put my finger on what it is. Like he’s holding something behind his back, waiting for me to snatch it away and examine it. Lovely. "I've actually been working on this game for quite a bit now,” he tells me.

"Have you? How flattering."

"Mm, yes. There's a little gallery for local artists near the surgery. When they have photography exhibitions, I pop in and buy postcard prints of the portraits."

“Goodness, legwork. Well. I’m always tremendously grateful when you put yourself out on my account, John.”

“It’s my pleasure, lovely. I love our games.”

“Then I suppose I’d best get on with it.” I drop my eyes to the top postcard. A man’s portrait. “Do you want me to tell you about that person, John?”

John grins and hands me the card, holding the remaining postcards to his chest so that I cannot see their subjects. “Go on then,” he says.

“With pleasure.” I study the card for a moment. It’s not quite like assessing a crime scene, nor even like drawing deductions from meeting or observing a stranger. All I have is what I can see. No other senses to rely on. Interesting. “Philandering alcoholic paramedic. Persistent flushing caused by enlarged blood vessels in the face is typical in heavy drinkers. Recent hair implants. Faint impression of a wedding band on his left hand. Could be recently divorced, I suppose, but the ring impressions look too fresh. He’d have removed it that day.”

“You said he was a paramedic?” John already sounds impressed.

“Star of life on his tie bar” I hold the photo a bit nearer to John’s face and point at it (he isn’t wearing his glasses; he’s left them on the night table, I believe).

John peers down and grins. “Marvelous,” he says.

There's not terribly much to be gleaned from looking at a single still image of a person. Or perhaps I'm out of practise at it. John seems to be pleased, though. He gives me a bright smile as I tell him what I can about the personal habits of the pianist with the anxiety disorder, the recently married acrobat, and the carpenter with all the dogs. John watches my face as I speak, only glancing at the photos from time to time. Mainly when I point at them to emphasise some particular detail. It's all sort of cosy. Feels a bit funny to be clever and comfortable at the same time.

"I used to do this with my brother," I tell him. "Sort of. We'd people watch, instead of using photographs. Whenever we had to be anywhere in public together."

"Did you?"

"Yes, he's much better at it than I am. Perhaps that's why he rather despises everybody; he knows us all too well. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all." I lay my head on John’s shoulder, and we're both silent for a long while. I start to wonder if perhaps he thinks we've had enough of the game for the moment. Then he withdraws his hand slowly where it rests on my knee and shuffles through the cards in the box, apparently looking for something.

The next card he hands me is unremarkable, really. Or should be. Tow-headed child of about two or three, sitting astride a rocking horse and looking solemnly into the camera, as children at play will do before they learn that play is meant to be light-hearted. What is there to be deduced about a baby?

"Did you buy this at the same gallery, John?" I ask, still looking at the card. There is something about it.

"Did I?" John returns in a very nearly featureless tone (suspicious). "You're the detective."

Going from the child's clothing and hairstyle and what I can see of the decor, it's quite an old image. He'd be more than grown up by now. "I think not," I say.

"Oh?" there's a creeping note of something like excited smugness in John's voice now. Glance at John. He's wearing a mysterious half-smile and looking pointedly down at the photo. All right then. This, whatever it is, is the real game. The other bit was just dressing to put me off the scent. Look at the photo again. This time I feel a little pull of something like connection (??) or recognition (????). The longer I study it, the stronger it grows.

"John, do we...?" I let myself trail off, and I can feel John nodding beside me. I do recognise this boy. I do. I know those eyelashes. I know that chin. I know those enormous, dark blue eyes. I know that expression. There's even something characteristic about the set of his shoulders and the authoritative grip of his little hands on the handles of his toy. And I'm romanticising now because, "This is you!"

John bursts into excited giggles at my exclamation. "Well done, you!" he drops a kiss on my cheek. "Knew you'd get there, eventually."

"Took me long enough." I'm still staring at the photo. I can't get my fill of this photo. I want to carry it around with me everywhere I go. I want to reach into it and scoop up that beautiful child and kiss his sweet face. There's my John. "God, look at you. You're so. John."

John laughs and hooks his chin over my shoulder. "Yes, yes. John Hamish Watson, established 1974, been under the same management the whole time. There's me. Ha, I look a bit cross, don't I?"

“You look beautiful.” It comes out dreamier than I’d meant it to, and John laughs against my ear (tickles). I clear my throat. “Yes, rather stern, certainly. It seems you’ve spent your entire life looking as if you’d brook absolutely no nonsense whatever from Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, I’m very fond of Sherlock Holmes’ nonsense, whenever it appears,” John says. “Though I’m not sure you were actually born at that point.” Can’t help frowning a little at the thought of a world with only one of us in it.

“May I keep this?” I ask, holding up the picture.

“Of course, lovely. It’s for you.”  
Something occurs to me. “Are there more photos of you in the box, John?” Swallow a little squirm of excitement when I ask. I'm sure I know the answer.  
John grins, “Mmm, not for us to look at right now. But yes, loads more. As much John Watson as one man can manage.” I am terribly eager to test that hypothesis.


	337. Chapter 337

"There's been a letter for you. It's on the mantel."  
"Ah thanks, love."  
"Who's it from?"  
"Dunno yet, do I? I just found out about it one second ago."  
"You weren't expecting it, then?"  
"Mm, no. Can't say that I was."  
"Ah. Well?"  
"Well?"  
"Aren't you going to open it?"  
"Ha, in a minute. Let me get myself sorted, love. I haven't even taken off my coat yet. Kiss first, definitely."  
"Indeed. Kiss first, nearly always."

...

John rather dawdles in sorting himself out. He's a dawdler. After my kiss, he hangs his coat on the hook, then goes and puts the kettle on. When he returns from the kitchen, however, it is with a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. He brings the tea to me on the sofa, dropping a kiss on my cheek as he tucks the hot cup into my hands. I set it down at once.

"What's that for?" I ask, indicating his glass with my chin.

"For drinking," John says, crossing to the mantel and sliding the letter from between the skull and his case of preserved ladybirds.

"But why?" Can't help myself.

"Because it's too liquid-y to chew?" John takes his seat, pulls his glasses out of his breast pocket, dons them, and takes a sip of his drink. Then he turns the letter over to check the back flap for a return address. There isn't one. I've already checked (writer ambivalent about the letter? Doesn't care to find out if it actually reaches him. Or perhaps wishes to remain anonymous?)(not a client, or it'd have come to me). John slides his thumb under the flap to tear the letter open, then pulls out a single sheet of stationery. Not cheap, but not expensive. No monogram, though. There's none on the envelope, and it matches the envelope in colour and texture (shut up; stop deducing).

John's mouth begins to pull right as soon as he's unfolded the letter. He recognises the handwriting. Certainly not a client then. John has a sip of his drink, without looking at the glass. His eyes glide quickly down the page, then immediately bounce back up to the top. He reads through slower the second time, his mouth turned up in a little smile, his eyes soft with fond regard. That is not the way one looks at one’s mates. Not that I have much experience with the matter (have I ever looked at Molly Hooper that way?)(No, certainly not).

John reads through once more, then folds it, tucks it back into the envelope, and puts it into his breast pocket. That little smile has yet to dissipate. Watch John finish his drink (he has not looked at me since he opened the letter) then reach down for the paper beside his chair, open it, and disappear behind it. Resist the urge to ask again who the letter was from. Instead go to the window, shoulder my violin and go into Partita No One. "Sherlock," Johns says mildly. "You startled me."  
Halt my playing at once and cringe at the screechy grunt of the bow being rapidly withdrawn from the strings. I don't look at John as I pack away my violin, but I can hear in his voice that his little smile has been replaced with a little frown.

"I didn't mean that you had to stop."

"As I was playing for myself and not for you, I did what pleased me," I answer. Go into the kitchen and sit down at my microscope. There's nothing on the stage, but I look through the eyepiece anyway.

I hear the soft rustle of a newspaper being folded, then John appears in the doorway of the kitchen, "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you? Or are you having more fun looking at nothing with your microscope."

"Nothing is bothering me," I answer through my teeth, then clear my throat rather sheepishly. "I'm fine."

"Sherlock. Rule one. You don't have to tell me, but. Don't lie."

Drum my fingers on the table for a moment, then push the microscope away and look up at him. "Had some good news today, have you?" I say.

"What?" How can he be so stupid?

"By post." I am being ridiculous. I am being pathetic. I am disgusting myself. I’ve no idea what to do about that.

John touches his pocket (his heart)(stop it!), little lines of bemusement appearing between his eyebrows, "Well. Sort of. Not really. Just. Heard from an old friend."

"You haven't got any old friends," I say.

John frowns, "'Scuse you. I wasn't born on the day we met, you know."

"Obviously not. You don't have any old friends who you're still in touch with who would write you a letter instead of just contacting you on the blog."

"Well he's just gotten back in touch."

“Right.” Pull the microscope back to me and resume looking at nothing.

“I know there’s nothing on the stage, Sherlock!” I do not look up. John sighs. “Are you angry with me because some one’s written me a letter?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you want to read it?”

“No, I don’t.” I am not afraid and have not ever been afraid that John might take up with some one else. The content of the letter is not the point. I cannot tell my husband (because it is insane) that I want every scrap, every molecule of his affection for myself. No one in my entire life has ever looked at me the way John looks at me. I want it all for myself. Always. Can’t say that (he has every bit of me and welcome to it)(can’t say that). There is nothing to be said. I sit still and silent, waiting for John to give it up and go away. Keep my eyes fixed on the nothing on the stage of my microscope.

“Sherlock.” John is still in the doorway of the kitchen. “Sherlock.” His voice is gentle. Generous. I want to look up. I don’t (mortified). John comes and lays a hand on my arm, and I can look up now. “Will you come and sit with me, please? On the sofa. I want to show you something.”

“I told you I don’t want to read it, John.” It’s rather an ugly thing to say, but it falls out of my mouth almost unbidden.

“Please. Come and sit with me. I won’t keep you long.” He tugs gently at my arm, and I rise and follow him to the sofa. “Thank you,” he says and goes to the desk. He finds the brown box from our game the other day and rummages in it before returning to the sofa with a photo held out in front of him. “I thought maybe a bit of a treat would cheer us up,” he tells me, squeezing in between me and the arm of the sofa. I move aside to make room for him, but he wraps an arm around my waist and hands me the photo.

Can’t help smiling at the sight of it. John in full fatigues, in the act of shouldering an enormous rucksack. His expression is grave under his crooked smile. Conscious of the camera but rather annoyed by it. He has things to do, clearly. I’ve never seen a photo of him in uniform before. I stare at the photo for a long time, taking in its details. My John, so brown and solemn. I’d never ever seen him that way before. Not quite.

“In arduis fidelis,” I murmur, almost without meaning to.

John squeezes me with the arm around my waist. “That’s right,” he says softly.

I turn my head to look at him. He’s smiling at me. “Is this for me?” I ask, holding up the photo.

“Of course it is, if you want it, lovely.”

I nod slowly. “Thank you, John.”

John squeezes me again, “I’m glad you’re pleased with it, love.” I nod again. I don’t know what to say. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” A little curl of trepidation begins to grow in my stomach. I think I know what’s coming next.

“May I tell you about James now? Please?”

James, the letter writer. Bite my lip and nod. “If you like.” Not a gracious answer, but John gives me a little squeeze anyway.

John does not begin immediately. I wait, feeling the tiniest bit queasy. “I’m not sure where to start,” John tells me after a few moments.

“In your own time,” I make myself say.

John nods and squeezes me again. “He was my commander. Major James Sholto. A good man. A great man. He was sent home a bit before I was. Mission gone wrong.” John swallows. I reach for his hand, and he takes mine at once. Holds it tightly. “Really badly wrong.” He’s silent for a moment, then shrugs. “I looked him up when I got back to London. Tried, anyway.” John looks at me. “He doesn’t see people. So.” He shrugs again, “I thought I’d heard the last of him.” John clears his throat and drops his eyes as if rather ashamed of that notion. I squeeze his hand, and he returns the pressure. “He didn’t write me when. When I thought I’d lost you.” As always, the mention of this subject makes me want to hide my face. Keep my eyes fixed on John.

He clears his throat again. “Well. Erm. He saw us in the paper. A few weeks ago. You and me. Ha, something about ‘Sherlock Holmes and his husband and crime-solving partner, John Watson.’ Something like that. Anyway. He erm. He wrote to me to say that he was glad I’d. Figured it all out.” John looks me full in the face. His smile is not very broad, but there’s that dazzling adoration again(I know it when I see it). I want to feel ashamed of myself, but it’s difficult when John is so pleased with me (and for what?)(just me. Just. Existing). “It just made me think how lucky I am, yeah?” He strokes the palm of my hand with with his thumb and swallows (the bob of his adam’s apple in his throat makes me want to cry). “Lucky to have figured it out.”


	338. Chapter 338

John,  
I hope you can forgive my behaviour earlier this evening. It was childish and inappropriate of me to try and make it your responsibility to dispel my possessive impulses. I’m happy to accept any pieces of your interior that you are pleased to give me. Your trust is everything to me, and I am very disappointed in myself for having fallen short. My sincerest apologies, John. I am extremely flattered by your patience with me.  
S

...

Sherlock must have written his note after I’d gone to sleep, because I never saw him writing it, and I didn’t find it until the next morning. He was still asleep when I woke up. He’d been noodling with his violin until the wee hours and had marched me off to bed, when I fell asleep in my chair. So I woke a bit past my usual time, and Sherlock was still asleep, one of his legs tangled in mine and his hand on my hip. When I reached for my phone to check the time, the note was there, underneath it. I put on my glasses, sat up in bed to read it, and at some point while my eyes were on the page, Sherlock woke too.

When I’d finished the note and put the paper down on my night table, I felt him shift against me to lay his head on my chest. He pulled my right arm up around his shoulders, and I put a hand in his hair. He sighed happily. Best sound in the world, Sherlock’s happy sighs. Well. Maybe I shouldn’t go that far. Sherlock makes a lot of really good sounds. That deep, humming, happy sigh is in the top ten, though. I can feel that all through me.

“Good morning, lovely,” I said, beginning to stroke his scalp.

“John,” he answered, his voice still a bit rough from sleep. Sherlock shut his eyes, and for a moment, I thought he might be trying to go back to sleep. Then, with his eyes still shut, he tipped his chin up toward me.

I kissed him just as I realised he was about to speak. “Sorry, love. What were you saying?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, “I’m sorry about last night, John.”

I stroked his scalp a bit more firmly. “It’s all right, love. We sorted it.”

Sherlock kissed me. “John?”

“Yes, lovely?”

“I’d like to hear more about your friend, if you want to tell me.”

“Sherlock,” I paused a moment to consider. “I don’t want to talk about this if it’s going to be like. Penance. Or something. For you.”

Sherlock shook his head energetically. “John, you fascinate me, utterly. I want to know all about you. All the bits you want to show me.”

He looked earnestly up at me for a long moment, and I nodded. “All right, lovely.” I reached for his hand. He took mine eagerly, laced our fingers together, and raised it to his face to kiss the knuckles one by one. I watched him, as I gathered my thoughts. “Well,” I said slowly, “You might have worked this out already because you’re much cleverer than I am, but, erm. I was sort of,” I cleared my throat. Sherlock continued to kiss my hand. I nodded, though he wasn’t looking at my face. “Right. I was. Infatuated. With him. With James.” I nodded again. “But it was one-sided.” I coughed a little. “Nothing ever. Happened. Between us. I mean.” I thought for a moment. “I didn’t even recognise what I was feeling at the time. I didn’t really know until, erm.” I paused for so long that Sherlock looked up from my hand. He nodded, but didn’t speak. Sherlock is actually really, really good listener. Not many people know that about him. Well, he doesn’t bother listening to most people, but when he wants to be, he’s an excellent listener. “I didn’t know that I had been infatuated with him until after I worked out that I was in love with you, actually.” Sherlock smiled a little and kissed my hand again. “Ha, yeah. Had a sort of. Retroactive epiphany. Erm. Not sure why, exactly. He’s nothing like you. Well. Sort of. Intense. And magnetic. And rather, er. Ha, rather prickly.” Sherlock rubbed my fingertips against the stubble on his chin to demonstrate his prickliness. We both giggled a bit, then fell silent. There didn’t seem to be much left to say.

Sherlock began to toy with my fingers, stroking up between them and rubbing at the webbing. It was sort of soothing to look at. Sort of soporific. “John?” he said, after a while.

“Mmm?”

  
“Was there an address? In the letter?”

“Mmm? No, no address.”

Sherlock nodded, opened his mouth, shut it, then said, “I don’t think it was one-sided, John.”

I looked at him carefully, but he looked calm and serious. “No? Why’s that, then?”

Sherlock kissed my hand again. “Well, if it were only friendliness, which seems unlikely, doesn’t it? After so many years of silence? If it were only friendliness, why should he object to you writing back to him?”

That hadn’t occurred to me, “Maybe. Yeah, maybe.”

“You underestimate your lovability, John.”

“Well. It isn’t exactly a nice thought, is it?”

Sherlock shook his head and nuzzled against my chest, hiding most of his face. “No, it isn’t,” he said. And then so softly, I’m quite sure that he didn’t intend for me to hear him, “Poor James.”


	339. Chapter 339

“Sherlock? Are you awake? What are you-oh god.”  
“Shhh.”  
“Do you have to do that right now?”  
“Yes, shhh.”  
“It’s the middle of the night.”  
“I couldn’t sleep.”  
“You’re shaking the bed.”  
“Do shut up, John. I was nearly finished before you started jabbering at me.”  
“You’re sleeping on the wet spot, you know.”  
“I have a towel.”  
“Oh. Well then godspeed, love.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Want some help?”-  
“I was hoping you’d suggest tha-ohhhh mmmm thank you, John.”  
“Shhhh.”

...

“What are you smirking about, John Watson?”  
“Not smirking love. Only I like to see you tuck in like that.”  
“I like soldiers.”  
“Ha, I know.”  
“And I’m starving; I hardly had anything to eat while we were working that case.”  
“I know.”  
“What’s funny about that?”  
“Nothing! I really do just like to see you eat like you mean it.”  
“Do you?”  
“Of course I do. It’s good to see you with an appetite.”  
“I’ve got an appetite.”  
“I know.”  
“Mmm, you would.”  
“Ha, yes.”  
“You know just how to stoke it, don’t you?”  
“I do my best.”  
“To great effect.”  
“Thanks, lovely. I do try.”  
“So pass me the pepper and pour me some more coffee.”  
“Bossy.”  
“You’re stoking.”  
“We like that.”  
“We do.”

...

“Stop-hup-laughing, John.”  
“I’m not laughing. I’m a bit offended that you suggest that I am, actually because I’m trying really really hard not to laugh, and I want my due credit.”  
“Hmph.”  
“I told you that you’d get the hiccoughs.”  
“Yes, I-hup-heard you.”  
“And yet you didn’t slow down.”  
“It was-hup-already too late.”  
“Poor dear.”  
“Don’t-hup-don’t-hup-don’t patronise me, John Watson. I-hup-I hate the hiccoughs. I keep-hup-interrupting myself. It’s-hup-it’s infutriating.”  
“I’m really enjoying your infuriated face, though.”  
“Shut-hup-shut up, John-hup-”  
“Sorry, what? I didn’t quite catch that.”  
“Be-hup-being annoying is-hup-isn’t the same thing as-hup-as being funny.”  
“Ha sorry, love. Am I annoying you? ...Oh and now you’re not going to talk? Going to wait it out, mmm? Want me to try and scare it out of you?”  
“Tha-hup-that’s a myth, John.”  
“Well here, love. Try a glass of water first, and if that doesn’t help, I’ll pop out of a cupboard and shout something ungrammatical.”  
“Th-hup-that won’t work-hup-on me, John. I’ve-hup-I’ve got nerves of steel-hup-hup-.”  
“Ha yeah, love. Nerves of steel.”

...

“John?”  
“Sherlock.”  
“You don’t, erm.”  
“Yes?”  
“You don’t still have that outfit, do you?”  
“Outfit? What outfit? Hang on. By ‘that outfit’ you mean my uniform?”  
“Yes. Well. Even just the beret would do, so long as you have the boots as well. The beret and the boots. The boots are paramount.”  
“Paramount?”  
“Yes.”  
“Paramount to what, exactly?”  
“To. Erm. Nothing. Never mind.”  
“Sherlock Holmes, are you a uniform fetishist?”  
“...I. No. Well. Fetishist is a bit strong.”  
“It’s all right to admit it. All the nice girls like a soldier.”  
“‘All the nice girls like a sailor’, John. And I’m not a nice girl.”  
“No, certainly not. Neither.”  
“No.”  
“So never mind about the beret, then? And the boots.”  
“Well. I. I wouldn’t go that far.”  
“Mmm, I’ll see what I can do.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“‘Thank you, Captain.’”  
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Captain.”


	340. Chapter 340

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So 530 pages in, I try my hand at smut, and I rather suspect this will not be the last we see of it. Enjoy!

I can feel John’s femoral pulse against my cheek. Quick. Quick. Quick. Quick. Quick. Quick. Tip my chin up slightly to kiss the seam where his thigh joins with his groin. John squirms beautifully and exhales a depleted sort of giggle. He’s rather oversensitive at the moment.  
“Come here,” he says, nudging me with his leg. “I want your mouth up here now.” Lovely. I push up on my elbows and slide up the bed, settling heavily against John’s side. Pause on a whim to dab my tongue against his nipple (tastes of his sweat)(mmm), which is still erect, and he squirms again. Quite hard. Lovely.  
When I’m lying against him, John turns his head and puts a hand in my hair, drawing me (a bit roughly)(mmmm) to him for a kiss. I say kiss. Rather than his lips, John applies his teeth first to my bottom lip, then to my chin, and it does very, very well. I want more, but John loosens his hold on my hair and says, “Your turn properly in a moment, lovely. Just let me get my breath back.” And he does sound rather breathless.  
“In your own time, John.” My voice is slightly rough, and that’s all right because John likes that. I’m still in my pants, so I lean back from John slightly, and raise up my hips to pull them off. John turns onto his right side to watch me finish undressing, and reaches for my erection as soon as it’s in sight (mmmmm). I freeze, curled on my side and draw in my breath sharply when he touches me. John doesn’t laugh exactly, but he makes a pleased little hum, that I ought not to feel in his hand on me (impossible) but I fancy that rather I do. Shut my eyes. “I thought you were getting your breath back, John.”  
John hums again and begins to stroke slowly. “I don’t breathe with my hand, Sherlock. Lie back.” I obey, and he presses closer, his hand firm and still slow. I can feel his breath in hot puffs on my neck. He’s exhaling in time with his hand on my cock. Out on the upstroke.  
I don’t open my eyes. “Mmm,” John says, and I hear him lick his lips. Squeeze my eyes shut tighter, draw deep breaths. John nips at my jaw. Near my chin first, then higher, above my pulse, and then just below my ear. I squirm a bit each time. We like that. My face is growing hot and tight. I’m flushing, I think. “Gorgeous,” John says low, but clear. That as good as confirms my suspicion. Reach up and grip the headboard to steady myself. John sighs (mmmmmm). “You look so lovely.” Kisses my pulse. “I want to show you to yourself sometimes. Always.” His hand is speeding now. I push up into it, and John obligingly adds a little twist to his downstroke. The first one makes me gasp and thrust harder, and John makes his amused little hum again. I can feel it against my throat. Lovely.  
John withdraws his hand, and I sigh in frustration and nearly open my eyes before I feel his palm brush against the tip of my nose. “Lick this, please,” he says. I obey at once. He tastes of me, and I don’t mind. He ought to taste of me, and I ought to be licking him, so what could there possibly be to mind? Lick John’s palm three times before he returns it to my cock. “Oh, that’s better,” he says. His hand is moving faster than before. “Don’t you think, lovely? Bit better?” He twists more firmly as he speaks, pulling the foreskin back and swiping the head with his thumb. John laughs outright at the answering jolt in my thigh. “Mmm? Better?” His voice is low and sweet and conspiratorial and infuriating and delicious and. Mmmm.  
Didn’t realise I was holding my breath until I gust it out to answer, “God yes, John!” Thrust again and gasp loud enough that I can’t hear John’s chuckle in my ear, though I can feel its buzz.  
“You’re lovely,” John tells me again. “So lovely like this. Did you know you blush here, too?” And his head bumps suddenly against the underside of my jaw (I bite my tongue)(don’t care) and John nips lightly along my collarbone until I shake my head (his hair tickles). He bites down hard, and I shiver. Gasp. Thrust. Feel the prickle of gooseflesh raise under his teeth and up my neck. Drop my arm from the headboard to clap my hand to his hip and tug on him. He bumps his hips vigorously against me in answer. He’s hard again.  
“Oooh,” John’s mouth is back against my ear. “Nearly lost you there, didn’t I?” I nod, and his hand speeds. “God, I love this bit. I was going to suck you, but I want to watch your face this time, lovely. You’re so fucking gorgeous. Oh, Sherlock.”  
“John.” I know when my name in his mouth demands a reply.  
“Sherlock,” his hand is firm and quick and he rolls his thumb over the tip just so. God. Fuck. Almost. “Sherlock,” John’s voice is warm in my ear, his breathing unsteady. Almost. “Sherlock, I want you-”  
“Yes, John!” Thrust. Almost.  
John huffs a hot laugh on my face, runs his tongue along the rim of my ear, and squeezes my cock hard on the downstroke. “Sherlock,” John breathes, “I want you to fuck me.” And I open my eyes, gasp, grunt, arch, and come.


	341. Chapter 341

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely and supportive response to the previous chapter! Makes me want to do nothing but sit around writing smut all day, every day. You are all so wonderful, and I couldn't do this without you.

“But why?” Sherlock asked as I mopped him up.

“Pass me the box,” I said.

Sherlock grabbed the box of tissues from his night table, and handed me a wad of them, tipping over his bedside water glass in the process. It spilt into his little bin, and we ignored it. “Why?” Sherlock asked again. “We don’t do it that way. Remember? Why would you want to change at this point?” He was still flushed and mussed and bright-eyed, and it made a very endearing combination with his imperative, insistent tone.

I wiped off my own hands and tossed the soggy ball of tissues into the bin,“Yes, I do remember, actually.” I tapped the end of his nose, just to make him scrunch it up and snap his teeth at my finger, “Tends to be the sort of thing a person remembers. Where everyone puts everything.”

“‘Where everybody puts everything.’ You choose such funny moments for coyness, John,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Considering you’ve just been clearing up my come.”

“You’re going to need a shower,” I told him. “We left it too long, and you’re still a bit sticky.”

Sherlock rubbed one hand absently over his belly, lingering on the tacky patch. “Hardly a difficulty. I presume you heard my question.”

“I’m thinking how to answer it.”

“Deflecting,” Sherlock said, tugging me toward him by my wrist.

I laid down next to him, and he promptly attached himself to me, holding me round the waist and tucking his head under my chin. I could feel the stickiness on his belly against my side. Didn’t much mind it, though. “Not deflecting. Thinking.”

“Was it only in service of the moment?” Sherlock suggested. “That’s all right. Nobody should be held to anything they say within ten seconds of causing or having an orgasm.”

“No, I meant it,” I said. I wrapped my arm around him and began to stroke lightly along his spine. He shivered. “And I’m still thinking.” Sherlock nodded, and we were silent for a while. His breathing grew deep and slow, and his thumb brushed a pattern where his hand lay on my hip. “You want me to to do it to you,” I said, hoping Sherlock would understand that it was a question, though it didn’t sound like a question.

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. “It was just what I wanted. Is what I want.” He shrugged. “And I enjoy it. I just. I wanted you to have me.” He was silent for a moment, but I could see his brain thinking, somehow. “At first,” he said, with the air of a confessor, “I rather thought the reverse would offend your sensibilities.”

“Well, it doesn’t,” I answered a bit sharply.

Sherlock squeezed me and turned his head slightly to drop a little kiss on my chest, “Yes, John, I know.”

“Right, I’ve just told you.”

“No, I worked out nearly immediately that it was a silly notion.” Sherlock tipped his chin up hopefully, again rather with the air of a confessor.

I kissed him before I answered, “Did you? Not just now?”

“No,” he said. “You’d never ask me to do something that you thought was beneath you.”

“Of course not,” I said.

Sherlock kissed me. “Of course not,” he agreed. He was silent a bit longer, then he said, “Perhaps it was my romantic side. Don’t ask me what I mean by that. I’m not entirely sure.”

“All right,” I said. “I won’t ask.” I stroked his hair, and he sighed happily and shut his eyes. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“We don’t have to, if you’d rather not.” I waited a moment for him to answer, then added, “Something to think about.”

Sherlock chuckled his wicked chuckle and bounced an eyebrow without opening his eyes, “Oh I’m sure I’ll be thinking about it, John.”

"No rush," I said. “In your own time."

Sherlock nodded and put a hand over my mouth. “Yes, as always. Shhh. Sleeping, John. Pillows don’t talk.”

I lifted my chin up, away from his hand, “I’m not your pillow; I’m your adoring husband.”

“Adore me silently, John. Let your awe of my magnificence fill you with reverent peace. I’m sleeping.”

“Fine, fine. Silent adoration.” I began to stroke his hair again, and he made another little sigh. “Here’s me reverent and peaceful.”

“Mmm, good.” Sherlock patted my side, and I could hear a smirk in his voice. “There’s a good bottom,” he said and jumped and giggled when I pinched him.


	342. Chapter 342

When I get in from the lab, John is asleep on the sofa. That's disappointing. Feel as if I haven’t seen him in ages, though we have just finished with a case yesterday evening. Check my watch. Half eight. I was supposed to be in an hour ago. Got caught up. Am slightly rained on, so go into the bedroom and get changed into my dressing gown and pyjamas. When I reenter the sitting room, I make for my chair, but change my mind and sit cross-legged on the floor next to the sofa, near John’s head. There’s a book splayed on his knee. Cummings. Take it and flip through it. He’s marked some pages down (smile over this, though dog-earing a book is abominable behaviour).

Turn to the first poem John’s marked (“O sweet spontaneous”)(he read it to me when I was ill) and am just finishing it when I feel the brush of John’s fingers in my hair. I don’t start, though I didn’t realise he’d woken.

“You smell of rain,” John says (his voice is sleep-rough)(lovely). At first I think he’s quoting from the book I’m reading. I turn my head toward him, and he kisses my cheek and noses my hair. “Petrichor,” he says.

“John,” I answer and tip my chin toward him.

John kisses me and pulls gently on my shoulders. “Up here, lovely,” he says, flattening himself against the back of the sofa to make room for me. Squeeze onto the sofa next to him, so that we’re nose to nose and tangle my legs in his. He smells lovely (my mouth is watering). “There we are,” John says, wrapping one arm around my waist to stop me sliding off the edge of the sofa. He kisses me again. His mouth is slightly sour from sleep, but I don’t mind. I like all of his flavours. John strokes my back, (lovely) and we lie silently looking at each other for a bit. He’s all eyes at this range. They’re so green today. Lovely.

“I’m sorry we missed your birthday, John.”

“Oh it still happened, didn’t it? Only we were catching a baddy when it did. More our area than a party anyway, mm?”

“We are quite good at that.”

“Mmm. Well anyway, now I’ve got an excuse to whisk you away somewhere and have you all to myself.” He’s rubbing his socked foot against my ankle. There’s static building.

“Are-” John interrupts me with a kiss just as I begin to speak. I suppose that should rather annoy me, but really I don’t mind.

“Mm,” John grins. “Sorry love. You were saying?”

“Are you going to lock me up in a tower, John?”

I kiss him as soon as he opens his mouth, and he giggles through it. “Yeah, might do.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good.” John’s toying with the sash of my dressing gown now. “Actually what do you think of that, love? Not such a bad idea is it?”

“The tower? I’d no idea you had one at your disposal. Frankly I’m a bit offended that you’ve been keeping it from me, John.”

John laughs. “What if we took a mini break? Maybe next week? We could go back to the Cross Keys.”

“The Cross Keys?”

“You haven’t forgotten The Cross Keys? Remember when we went to Dartmoor?”

“Oh you mean when we killed a ghost dog, ingested a weaponised hallucinogen, and broke into a secret military base to investigate the disappearance of a rabbit?”

“Did you not have fun?”

“Well the case was brilliant.” I pause.

John strokes my back more firmly. “You were brilliant.”

“I was horrible to you. I’m surprised you didn’t lose your temper and shake me as hard as you could.” Drop my head against his shoulder, trying to ignore the prickles of shame running over me (they’re only an impediment here, not doing anybody any good).

John chuckles (sympathetic, not derisive)(when is John ever derisive?)(John is gentle, even when he isn’t) and pulls me a bit closer, “I was near to it at some points.”

I nod. “I’d have deserved it.”

“Mmm, I’ve decided that my memory’s a bit leaky, and the bits I remember best are the bit where you told me that I'm amazing and fantastic and an unbeatable conductor of light. Ha and, of course, the bit where you looked like you were going to eat me alive when I pulled rank at Baskerville.”

Duck my head down even more and smile into John’s neck. I can feel his pulse against my lips. Touch my tongue to it and fancy that I feel it speed up. He shifts one hand to my hair and tugs it a bit. Not quite hard enough to make me squirm, but I do anyway so that he’ll pull harder (he does)(mmm). “You noticed that, did you?”

“Well, thought I was imagining it at the time. But now that I know you fancy a military man. Well. New data, isn't it?” I shrug, and (as I hoped he would) John pulls my hair a bit harder. “What if I ordered you to take me to The Cross Keys? Mmm?”

Realise I’m holding my breath when I let it out to reply, “I would do as ordered.”

“You would do as ordered, what?”

I pause and John’s hand in my hair slackens as he waits, though he doesn’t drop it. “I would do as ordered, sir,” I say quietly. Rather want to squirm as I say it, but I stay as still as I can. Taut with stillness.

John kisses the top of my head. “It’s settled, then” he says. “And do feel free to eat me alive this time.”


	343. Chapter 343

“My John! Sound the horns, strike the-oh. You look a bit disgruntled. Bee in your bonnet, John?”  
“I’ve just run into Molly at Boots.”  
“And she was loathsome and horrible as is her wont?”  
“Nooo, though she did startle me a bit.”  
“Did she?”  
“Yeah, I was rather lost in thought.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah, well. You remember what you sent me off for.”  
“You ran into Molly Hooper while you were getting condoms?”  
“I did. Yes, I did.”  
“Mm, and how was that?”  
“Deeply awkward...ha yes, thank you for laughing. My misfortune amuses me, too.”  
“Forgive my flippancy, John, but I suspect the John and Sherlock Have Sex With Each Other cat was firmly out of the bag once we were married, to say the least.”  
“Yes, all right! You’d have been embarrassed too, you know.”  
“No, I wouldn’t have.”  
“Yes, you would have! It was awkward. It was just. An empirically awkward situation.”  
“How did Molly respond to the empirically awkward situation?”  
“She spotted me, I suppose, and came over and said hello, and then she sort of realised and said ‘erm’ about thirty-seven times and asked if I knew where the shampoo was, and I didn’t.”  
“Goodness.”  
“And then I blurted that we were going away for a few days and asked if she wouldn’t mind looking in on the cats for us.”  
“Oh good. I was going to text her today.”  
“And she said 'fine', and then we both sort of simultaneously melted away.”  
“You did get the condoms, didn’t you?”  
“Well, yeah.”  
“Oh, that’s all right, then.”  
“So sympathetic.”  
“My apologies, John. Shall I put the kettle on? Will tea help you through the aftermath of this incident?”  
“Tea helps me through everything. The kettle is the only one who understands me.”  
“Your afflictions are so moving, John. You ought to write a book."

...

“John, you do realise that we’re going to Devon. Not to the edge of the known universe.”  
“And just what is that supposed to mean? Anyway, Devon basically is the edge of the known universe for you, Mr Round and Round the Garden.”  
“You’re overpacking.”  
“No, I’m not!”  
“You are a chronic overpacker.”  
“I am not!”  
“We don’t need ten pairs of socks a piece for a three day trip, John.”  
“It’s damp!”  
“Still, I think we might trim that down to six pairs a piece?”  
“Fine, fine. You’ll regret this when the damp gets you.”  
“Mmhm. And the dampness is the reason you’ve packed me five shirts?”  
“Actually, I only laid all those out because I didn’t know what you meant by ‘the blue one.’ Did you know that you’ve got seven blue shirts? While we’re on the subject of excessive.”  
“Oh, I meant the light blue with the dove grey herringbone and buttons. And they’re all different blue shirts, John. Besides, one can hardly have too many, Mr This Green Checked Shirt is a Slightly Different Checked Pattern to the Twelve Green Checked Shirts I am Already Crowding the Wardrobe With. And remember last week when you had to be forcibly dragged away from purchasing your third maroon cardigan?”  
“Maroon is my colour. Ha, and I went back to the shop and bought it later. It had really nice buttons. And an inside pocket!”  
“Yes, I know. It looks lovely with your scarf.”  
“I know. They all do. Anyway, this one is a sort of brown maroon. It looks best with my tan oxfords.”  
“Indeed. And the others? What have they to say for themselves?”  
“Well one of them looks really good with my brown Clarks. You know the really dark brown ones.”  
“Your date shoes.”  
“Yeah, those. And one of them is a shawl collar, and it’s got interesting yellow stitching on the buttonholes.”  
“My husband, the incorrigible clotheshorse.”  
“You’re one for talking.”  
“Never said I wasn’t.”

…

"I'm going to be sick."  
"Do you want me to pull over?"  
"I want to drive. I hate the passenger side."  
"Sherlock, we agreed that I would drive. Because your driving is terrifying. Anyway, how can you hate being a passenger? You ride in cabs all the time."  
"No, I said I wanted to drive, and then you distracted me with Jelly Babies and took the keys off me."  
"And you ate all of them. Because you're greedy and spiteful."  
"Well, that isn't news."  
"I'm trying not to jostle too much."  
"Yes, I've noticed. Your timidity is making me anxious. That's what causes the nausea."  
"Timidity?!"  
"Timidity."  
"You drive like you expect the other cars to dematerialise when they're in your way."  
"I'm assertive, John. As in all my endeavours."  
"I've been known to be assertive."  
"Perhaps. Not behind the wheel, at any rate."  
"I'm trying to be considerate!"  
"Mm mhm. Much appreciated."  
"Good."  
"Let me drive!"  
"No.Though I am enjoying the begging."  
"Brute. I'm an excellent driver."  
"Ha."  
"I am! Well-versed in multiple vehicles. Did you know I can ride a motorbike?"  
"Doesn't surprise me."  
"And drive a bus."  
"It doesn't count, if it's hijacking."  
"Borrowing. The tourists didn't mind. I can fly a plane as well. Though not exactly legally."  
"That doesn't surprise me either. What do you mean by 'not exactly legally'? Please tell me you’ve never hijacked a plane."  
"No, of course not. I meant that I had flying lessons, but I never actually got enough practise hours for a PPL."  
“A what? PPL?”  
“Private pilot’s licence.”  
"Ah right. Wow. Well. Why’d you have flying lessons?"  
"Oh, it was just a youthful wild hair. Conned Mycroft into paying for it. For god’s sake John, overtake him! He's actually going under the speed limit!"  
"The road is muddy. Hey! Sherlock! Behave or you're riding the rest of the way up in the back."  
"I make it a point never to behave."  
"Sherlock. Don't make me lecture you about road safety."  
"Dear god, spare me."  
"Ha, well chat to me instead. You're meant to be entertaining me. It's your job."  
"Oh it is, is it?"  
“I thought you decided long ago that it's your life’s work to keep me entertained.”  
“Mmm, something like that. Only because you’re completely insufferable when you’re bored.”  
“Yeah, completely insufferable. Shooting walls and so on.”  
“You adore me. You’ve got horrible taste.”  
“I’ve got impeccable taste, and I don’t want to hear a word to the contrary. You were chatting.”  
“Ergh, chatting. What should I chat about? What a load of cows there are about? Just. Loose. Like. Butterflies. John, why are there so many cows? Why? Why?”  
“...Butterflies?”  
“Oh shut up. You choose the topic, then, if you don’t like to discuss the illogical cow distribution.”  
“No, no, we can talk about cows, if you like. Isn’t it funny how when you think of a cow, you always imagine those sort of blotchy black and white ones, but cows come in all sorts of colours?”  
“You’re making fun of me.”  
“No, look. There’s a brown one there. Or I think they call them red cows. Oh, there’s a white one. Get your pad out; you should be taking notes for my scrapbook.”  
“I will take the steering wheel and run this car into a ditch, John Watson.”  
“We’re chatting!”  
“Unfortunately.”  
“Ha, I love it when you try to frown over a smile. Your little face when you try to pretend you’re not thoroughly enjoying me.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“Never.”

...

“Mmm, do you think it’ll be too dark for a walk by the time we get there, love?”  
“No, the sun won’t set until nearly eight. We may have time for dinner first, if we make it a short walk.”  
“Oh, let’s have a long one. If you’re not too hungry.”  
“No, I’m fine. You want a long one, John?”  
“Yeah, be good to stretch our legs, after we’ve checked in, won’t it? And it’s been so long since we’ve had a really nice, long one.”  
“Yes, I suppose it has been rather a long time.”  
“My ankle’s fine.”  
“If you’re sure.”  
“It’s fine, Sherlock.”  
“All right.”  
“It’s a nice place for a walk.”  
“Yes, so it is.”  
“And you look so Byronic and gorgeous out on the moors with the wind in your hair. All flushed and mussed and bright-eyed. Very romantic, if you'll forgive my saying so.”  
“Is that so?”  
“Mmmm oh yes, it is so.”  
“You sound a bit conflicted as to what you actually want, John.”  
“An evening ramble with my lovely husband, definitely.”  
“If you’re sure.”  
“Anyway there’s always UMQRA.”  
“What? UMQRA?”  
“Ha, yeah.”  
“What’s UMQRA? What language is that?”  
“Nothing, never mind.”  
“What’s that little smile for, John?”  
“Nothing, it’s just a private joke.”  
“Well, tell me about it.”  
“Mmm. Maybe later.”


	344. Chapter 344

I woke to a warm, whiskery sort of tickle on my face, and I forgot where I was for the moment.

“Fuck off, Smoke,” I mumbled, then tried to roll over.

“Mmmm guess again, Sleeping Beauty,” Sherlock’s voice was low and amused. He held me by the shoulders and dabbed a kiss on my mouth. “There now. I’ve unbound you from your spell.”

“Rebind me,” I said, covering my face with my arm, though there wasn’t much light in the room to block out. “I’m sleeping.”

Sherlock bounced the bed and nuzzled at my jaw, under my arm. His breath was ticklish, and it made me squirm. “No, John, I’ve unbound you.” He stroked the forearm that covered my face before he continued, “Now you’re free from enchantment, I thought you might want to come out on the moor with me to watch the sunrise.” I lowered my arm.

“I have something for you,” I quite enjoy Sherlock’s wheedles, actually, but I’m no good at all at pretending that I don’t want whatever he wants to give me. I grinned and blinked away the bleariness until he was less blurry. He was smiling down at me, and when my face came in sight, he bent and kissed me again.

“Are you planning to propose?” I asked. “Sorry, I’m already married.” I held up my left hand and waggled my fingers at him.  
Sherlock laughed, caught my hand, and kissed it. “Shall I take that as a ‘yes,’ then?”

“Oh all right,” I sat up and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. “What time is it?”

“Just gone six,” Sherlock said, stretching and rising from the bed. “Sunrise due in thirty-eight minutes. Best get moving.” I followed Sherlock out of bed, and we dressed in the pre-dawn almost light. Each of us occasionally paused to stroke a bit of exposed skin for which we had particular fondness. Sherlock has a mole on his back, near his right hip, that I am compelled to run my thumb over whenever I see it. That held me up a bit.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, as I finished lacing up my boots.

“Yep, let’s go,” I answered, straightening up from my crouch. Sherlock was looping his scarf round his neck, and as I turned to him, he pulled mine out of our bag and wound it around my neck.

“There John,” he said, with a smile. “Now we’re perfect.” He reached into our bag again and dug out a torch, which he handed to me. Then he picked up his violin case.

“Oh,” I grinned. “Are you going to play for me?”

Sherlock only smiled broader and opened the door, “After you, John.”

Once we were out of doors, Sherlock turned up his coat collar, cutting a glance at me and tucking his chin in behind his collar, so I wouldn’t see him smile. I know his smiles when I see them, though. Even when I can’t quite properly see them. I switched on the torch, then offered him my hand, and he took it eagerly. Feels odd to join hands through gloves. Like having a cuddle through a blanket. But there was a chilly wind that warranted the extra protection of the gloves, and Sherlock tossed his head whenever the wind blew his fringe into his eyes, his hand too full of mine to brush it away. That was enough for me to keep tight hold of him, though it did feel just a bit odd.

We walked in silence, a vague sort of ambling, following my torchbeam out of the village to the edge of the moor, looking for a good spot to watch the sunrise.

“Here, I think,” Sherlock said as we came to a low boulder formation. Sherlock lifted his violin case onto it, then we scrambled up after it. We stretched out on our backs, side by side, and joined hands again, looking up at the sky. Waiting.

I felt a pull of anticipation in my middle watching the sky shift from grey to pink to orange, as if something surprising might pop up from behind the horizon. Sherlock huddled closer to me, the longer we lay there, eventually resting his cheek on my shoulder. His hair was cool against my jaw, his breath humid on my neck.

“Cold, lovely?” I asked.

“Hmm?” Instead of answering, I kissed his hair, and he hummed happily.

As the sun finally emerged from a patch of clouds, we turned to each other at the same moment, simultaneously dazzled. Sherlock smiled and kissed me. Then he began to laugh. He tried to hold it in at first, but I had to pull back when our teeth knocked together.

“What’s so funny?”

Sherlock pouted a bit when I withdrew my face and tugged me to him to kiss me again before he’d answer. “I hope your romantic sensibilities will excuse my saying so aloud, John, but I was just thinking how utterly stupid I’d find this, if I were doing it with anybody else. And it was my idea!”

I snorted. “I’m really not so romantic as you make me out to be. You’re far more romantic than I am, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth actually fell open. “I-you! How dare you?!”

I burst out laughing. “Leave it to you to respond romantically to accusations of romance. Are you going to slap me with a glove and demand satisfaction?”

Sherlock grinned reluctantly and gave me another kiss. When he spoke again, it was conspiratorial and hesitant. “I want to do things with you that would be foolish or pointless or mortifying under any other circumstances. I attribute it to witchcraft.”

“Mmm, I think that’s what romance is, lovely. Little things start to seem so. Relevant.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Yes, relevant! I want to know every bit of you. I want to show you every beautiful thing I can find. You fascinate me, and I feel driven to fascinate you.”

There was nothing to be added to that. I nodded and kissed him, and hoped that he knew exactly what I meant. “Well,” he said. “I did not mean to set my poor little tune up this way. I ought to keep it and play it another time, when my fingers are not so stiff, and I have not been quite so self-important.” Sherlock jumped down from the boulder and held his hand out for his violin case.

I passed it to him and watched him pull off his gloves and stuff them into his coat pocket before unpacking his instrument. “What’s it called?” I asked. “The new piece.”

Sherlock ducked his head. “It’s called ‘Light,’” he said, with a little laugh that was something like a blush. “And you mustn’t expect much. It’s barely finished and not practised.”

“I’m sure it’ll be lovely,” I said.

Sherlock tucked his violin under his jaw and raised his bow. “I confess,” he said, with another little pink-cheeked laugh, “I brought you here to play it for you because. Because I thought it’d be picturesque. I say ‘picturesque.’ I thought it’d be romantic.”


	345. Chapter 345

“Have we really come all this way to play draughts in front of some one else’s fire?”  
“Hush, you. Don’t even pretend you aren’t enjoying yourself. You haven’t smiled so much in weeks.”  
“All right, I am a bit.”  
“You are a lot.”  
“All right, I am a lot. It’s er, well that is to say, it can be. Nice to. Relax. From time to time.”  
“Ha, I was recording that.”  
“Liar.”  
“I’m going to make it my text alert.”  
“You take such delight in being obnoxious, John. It’s indecent.”  
“Who cares about decent?”  
“God, think how dull that’d be.”  
“Hey! Sherlock! That’s an illegal move! You can’t go backward unless you’re a king.”  
“You’ve got me cornered. I’m desperate to escape.”  
“I can see that.”  
“And I’m a horrible cheat.”  
“I know.”  
“You think it’s charming.”  
“Yeah, all right. It’s the reason I keep trying to play board games with you. But I have a rather unsavoury ulterior motive for suggesting this one.”  
“Do you?”  
“Yeah, do you want to hear about it?”  
“I delight in all your unsavoury ulterior motives, John. And I particularly want you to tell me, if you’re planning to do so while wearing that expression and using that tone of voice.”  
“I thought you might say that. Since you can’t retaliate here with defenestration, I am going to avidly trounce you at draughts as many times as I possibly can. And you can cheat if you like, but you know I’ll still completely route you. Because I am an absolute prodigy at board games.”  
“Well. John, that was a bit. Ah, unsettling.”  
“You enjoyed it.”  
“All right, I did a bit.”  
“You did a lot.”  
“Yeah, okay I did a lot.”  
“Doesn’t change things, you know. There's your man captured. Crown me.”

...

“John!”  
“Sherlock!”  
“These are flavoured!”  
“And you have mysteriously strong feelings about that?”  
“Flavoured condoms are for…”  
“Yes?”  
“I don’t know how to finish that sentence, actually. Who are flavoured condoms for? I honestly can’t imagine. Why were they invented? They make your bits smell of jam. Is that supposed to be fun or something? Do people really find a miasma of artificial strawberry and warm latex stimulating? By the way, there's an orange, a strawberry, a banana, and a kiwifruit pictured on the box, but there are only strawberry ones in here. Have we been cheated?”  
“You know what’s stimulating is listening to you moan about it. Also the word ‘miasma.’ Anyway, it isn’t exactly as if you’ve got taste buds in there. Try and put it out of your mind.”  
“Put it out of my mind. Generous of you. Anyway. I do know a deflection when I hear one, John Watson.”  
“Deflection?”  
“Nice try. Why’ve you brought these things here?”  
“Well I didn’t realise I hadn’t bought the usual ones until you said so.”  
“Careless.”  
“Molly flustered me!”  
“Ah, I see.”  
“Good.”  
“You were so flustered by the appearance of Molly Hooper in the condom aisle at Boots that you panicked, grabbed for the most embarrassing item on the shelf, and asked her to look after your cats.”  
“Yes, exactly. Very thorough and accurate. Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome. I do my best.”

...

 

Is there some particular reason that you are in Dartmoor and declining all my calls?  
-M 

 

The answer to both questions is the same. Because John and I are trying to enjoy ourselves.  
-SH 

 

What a deliberate lack of reassurance.  
-M 

 

This trip is nothing to do with you.  
-SH 

 

That's what you said last time.  
-M 

 

I will remind you that last time, when I asked, you were breaking into a high-security military base using a pass you'd stolen from me.  
-M

 

I do recall, Mycroft. My memory is excellent.  
-SH 

 

And if you're missing a security pass, you want to look into that in a more timely fashion.  
-SH 

 

Tut tut, Mycroft. You'll bring England tumbling down around our ears.  
-SH 

 

Anyway, switching my phone off now. Try not to ruin the country while I'm on holiday.  
-SH 

 

Sherlock, what are you doing?  
-M

 

Sherlock! Answer my calls!  
-M

...

 

What are you two up to, then?  
-DI Lestrade- 

 

Are you offended you weren't invited to our picnic? 

 

Sorry what?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Ha, only joking. We're having a mini-break in Devon.

 

What's up? Got a case? We're back Friday evening, but I work Saturday. 

 

Devon, eh?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Yeah. Something remarkable about that?

 

Just wondering if any more rabbits had gone missing.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Did Mycroft put you up to this?

 

Well yeah.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Thought so. He's certainly persistent. 

 

Do me a favour and answer the question properly, John.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

It's just that we're a bit concerned at this end.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Everyone's history taken into consideration.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Really we're just having a mini break. Hiking, eating too much, falling asleep in front of the fire.

 

No snooping. Scout's honour. 

 

Thanks, mate. Sorry to interrupt. My best to Sherlock.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Yeah, same. 

 

Molly says hi.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Well that's cosy. All friends together, eh?

 

Sort of.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Hello to Molly, then. See you lot later. 

 

See you.  
-DI Lestrade-


	346. Chapter 346

John is sat on the edge of the bathtub watching me shave. I’m pretending that I don’t particularly notice. I do, of course. He’s wearing that absently hungry expression, pulling at his bottom lip with his fingers. He looks lost in thought. As if making plans. I bite my own lower lip to smooth the divot below it, keeping my eyes (mostly) fixed on my own reflection as I scrape away the last bit of shave cream there. Difficult, too. John looks delectable. He’s pink from the dissipating steam of the shower we’ve just shared, and his hair is still dripping water down his neck and his bare shoulders.

I want to lick away every drop. Freshly-clean John is the most delicious. Unless it’s John with two days of adrenaline-laced sweat on his skin, pressed against the wall near the staircase in the foyer of 221 Baker Street or panting near silently in some utility cupboard or other at NSY. Pointless to try and compare, really. John is never short of delicious.  
John toys with the edge of the towel he’s got wrapped around his hips and licks his lips. And his thumb a bit as well. His hand is still hovering at his mouth. I swallow a smile, rinse my razor, and set it down on the edge of the sink. Wipe my face with a damp cloth and lean in toward the mirror to check I haven’t missed a spot. I haven’t, so I reach for my after-shave cream, squeeze some out into my hand, and dab it onto my face. Sounds wetter than usual somehow. I look right at John in the mirror, as I do. Watch the tip of his tongue slide from one corner of his mouth to the other and back. Watch his fingers flutter on his towel. Mmmm.

He’ll speak soon. I can see thoughts condensing into words behind his forehead. I’ll just let him take his time. Shake my head and fluff my hair out a bit with my fingers. Does it need anything to keep it obedient today? No, I think not. John likes me rainswept and windblown. Byronic, he called me, the other day. As it came from John, it’ll do for a compliment. Catch eyes with John in the mirror and allow myself a smile. I hope that it’s friendly and affectionate and not too salacious, but it doesn’t seem to have fooled John. His answering smile is very knowing indeed.

John clears his throat, clasps his hands casually on his knee. I turn to him, and something in his bearing shifts. He sits up a bit straighter, raises his chin, lowers his shoulders (how does that man look commanding in a bath towel? Is it taught in officer’s training?). John looks me over, his eyes linger just for a moment on my groin, and his smile broadens. Mmmm. I swallow and lick my lips before he even speaks.

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice already has a hint of that intimate rasp. Lovely. Shut my eyes for half a moment. “Sherlock,” John continues, “We’re going home this evening, and do you know what you have yet to do?”

“Tell me,” I say at once.

John tuts and shakes his head. “Is that any way to ask?” Lovely. Swallow again, suppress a shiver. I keep us waiting for a bit because we like that. John continues to smile, cocks his head. Encouraging.

“No, sir. That’s no way to ask.”

“Well then ask properly.”

“Will you please tell me what I’ve forgotten to do?” John raises his eyebrows and does not reply. “Will you please tell me what I’ve forgotten to do, sir?” I correct myself quietly.

“Can’t you remember? Think for a moment.” Have a sudden urge to touch him, as if that will help me to remember. Really, I want him to touch me. He will soon. I’m quite sure. I can see it on his face. Try not to fidget. “Are you having some trouble, Sherlock?" he offers. "Do you want me to remind you?”

“Yes, sir.”

John beckons to me, and I approach, crouch down next to him, and sit on my heels. Slide my palms against the nap of his towel (why does it make me shiver?)(his thigh flexes under my hand when I touch him)(lovely, lovely). He puts a hand in my hair, and I know at once what he’s going to say (my mouth begins to water)(association he's intentionally encouraged)(he is clever, so clever). He doesn’t speak at first, only fiddles with my hair, then slides his dampened hand down to rest lightly on the back of my neck. I sigh and bump my head against his arm, and John rubs my scalp with his fingertips in answer.

John is a witch. John is a magician. John conjures in me things that ought not live in the same wrapping. Buzzing, heated anticipation should not marry so perfectly with such. Peace. Lower my face to rest my forehead on John’s hip. It’s too exquisite. John continues to stroke my hair until I look up at him. He smiles at me when I do, and I nod. I don’t know how I know that the smile was a question, but I do.

“Do you remember what we decided you would do while we’re here, Sherlock?” His voice is nearly a whisper. It brushes against me like a live thing, raising gooseflesh on my neck.

I shut my eyes, and I have to swallow hard before I can reply, “I’m meant to eat you alive. Sir.”

“That’s right, Sherlock. Yes, you are. But you haven’t. Have you?”

I open my eyes, “No, sir.”

His hand tightens in my hair, tips my head back. “But we have the opportunity to amend that. Don’t we?”

Shiver. John’s eager expression is like looking into a mirror, “Yes, please sir.”

John smiles, “Then what are we waiting for?”

I can already taste my answer in my mouth, but I wait to deliver it until John gives my hair a sharp tug that makes my eyes prick and sends a jolt through my middle. “I’m awaiting orders, sir.”

I can’t say what it is exactly that changes in John’s face. But his expression is dazzlingly naked, and I’d be tempted to look away but for the hand in my hair that holds me.


	347. Chapter 347

“John?”  
“Yes, lovely?”  
“How deep would a man trap have to be to ensure that a person who fell into it would be impaled on the stake? What? What’s that look for? Are you laughing at me?”  
“You’ve asked me this before, love.”  
“Have I?”  
“Yes, when you were dead. You told me that you were thinking of building a man trap to entertain yourself.”  
“Mmm, I don’t remember that, though it does sound like me. Do you have any particular thoughts on man traps?”  
“Oh, are you planning some renovations at Baker Street, love? Shall I ring the builder?”  
“Now why on earth would you do that, when it’s so obvious that I should do it? He likes me much better than you.”  
“He does like you better.”  
“Yes, because you called him ‘David’ about thirteen times.”  
“Nobody corrected me!”  
“I’ve honestly no idea where you got David from, John. It’s nothing like Harrison at all.”  
“Well you knew Greg for six years before you learnt his name!”  
“I learnt his surname! I wasn’t calling him ‘you there’! Lestrade is a perfectly serviceable name. He doesn’t need both. And his surname is better than his first name.”  
“Nothing wrong with Greg.”  
“Well he ought to go by Gregory. Proper names have at least two syllables.”  
“Hey!”  
“Shhhh. You know you’re always my exception, John.”  
“You’re the picture of generosity, love. Tell me more about our improvements at Baker Street.”  
“Actually, my John, I was thinking that the hilltop just there would be a perfect spot for our fortress. Fortified with mantraps for protection, of course. Among other things. I’ve always wanted a trebuchet.”  
“Oh, are we going to have a fortress?”  
“Yes, we’ll summer there. Or just jaunt down when we’re tired of the moon.”  
“I expect the view gets monotonous after a bit.”  
“We’ll alternate between the moon and the fortress--oh we must invent a name for it!”  
“Ah, well. We want to take our time with that. Mustn’t rush ourselves.”  
“Indeed. It’d be so embarrassing to have a hastily named fortress.”  
“That really is a lovely spot.”  
“So it is.”  
“Have we got time to go and see it? Or do we need to head back?”  
“Ah, well, we need to be on our way within two hours to give us time enough to catch our train. I’d say we’ve got time. It’s not far off.”  
“Well then we must go and see it. Must survey our territory.”  
“I quite agree.”  
“Good. It’s settled, then. Oh, and I can show you all about UMQRA.”

...

“Jesus, Sherlock! Do you have to go flying up to the intersection, like you’re trying to jump a ramp?!”  
“I thought it might turn green.”  
“You thought you might scare it into turning green by charging it?”  
“Oh don’t fuss. I stopped, didn’t I?”  
“I hope you aren’t imagining you get some sort of special congratulations for that.”  
“I’m quite honestly not trying to get us killed, John.”  
“You’re quite honestly not trying not to get us killed, Sherlock.”  
“You and your exaggerations, John.”  
“Seriously, Sherlock. Could you try and drive a bit less like a maniacal fugitive?”  
“If you insist.”  
“I do!”  
“So I see. The things I do for you.”

...

Hello love,

  
You’ve drifted off on my shoulder, as you do sometimes. I love it when you do that. I’ve been counting your freckles. You have seven entirely new ones on your nose. Two above your eyebrow, three on the back of your ear, and a really really lovely one on your lip. So I’d say it’s been a good trip. I’m a brilliant freckle accountant. You’ll want to compliment me on that, later.

  
You are so gorgeous, you know. Not only the freckles and your eyes and your mouth and your cheekbones and your chin and your hands and your shoulders and your really, really attractive backside. I suppose that’s most of you, isn’t it? I don’t know how to say it properly. It isn’t only how you look, though empirically you are the most beautiful man who has ever lived.

  
It’s rather difficult for me to describe. I think I’ve mentioned it to you before a bit. It’s like your fascinating mind lives in your body. Which obviously, yes, it does. Yes, your brain lives in your skull. Your mind is in your body. But it’s like it lights you up. It’s like I can see your curiosity, your passion, your quickness, your wit in the way you hold yourself, the way you turn your head, the way you walk and laugh and gesture. It’s like your Sherlock-ness is a light that comes out of you. It’s wonderful.

  
Do I tell you enough what a joy you are? I rather doubt that I do. You’re a joy. I love to look at you. I love to talk to you. I love to touch you and be near you. This trip has been lovely, but I am so looking forward to going back to our normal lives with you. I adore our life together, Sherlock. I hope you know. I’m rather overawed by it sometimes. Not overawed. Awed to the appropriate extent that you love me, and that you live with me, and that you’re my husband, and we work together to do good in the world. Isn’t that amazing? Does it awe you sometimes, Sherlock? I’d imagine that it does. I’ll even venture to guess that you can’t quite bring yourself to scoff at this letter, can you? I’m turning you into quite the old romantic, I think. Or perhaps to an extent you have been always rather romantic, and finally here’s me to witness it.

Yours,  
John


	348. Chapter 348

"Molly Hooper!" Sherlock must have heard us coming up the staircase because he's barreling round the corner from the kitchen to the sitting room as John and I step through the front door. "Bearing with you gifts," he exclaims, tugging the polystyrene box I'm carrying out of my hands. "My spleen! Excellent!" He gives me a kiss on the cheek and spins in a tight circle, clutching the box to his chest. "Ah and you've brought along my little helpmate. A bounty of excellence."

John allows himself to be kissed as well, then says with a flimsy veneer of annoyance, "Right, if you could just never call me your little helpmate in company ever again, that'd be aces, love."

Sherlock laughs and does his little eyebrow face, "But in private...?"

"Right. Stop. Or I'm going," I say, holding up a hand. Sherlock laughs again. Bit giddily. He looks quite the picture of a mad scientist. He's in pyjama trousers and an orange jumper that probably belongs to John with a dressing gown over, and he's wearing a pair of oversized safety glasses like an Alice band. All that in concert with the box of spleen he's cradling makes him look more than a bit insane.

"My apologies, Molly," Sherlock says, winking broadly at John, who shakes his head. "Where are my manners? How is Millicent? Enjoying her stay?"

I frown at him. "Show off. How'd you work that out?"

John and I follow Sherlock , who sweeps into the kitchen with his spleen, deducing as he goes, "Well your hair reeks of Chanel, which you don't wear, but your mother does. And cigarettes, which you don’t smoke, but your mother does. And you’re in your Extremely Serious and Professional Specialist Registrar outfit--black doesn't suit you by the way; try grey or brown--because your mother disapproves of your vaguely dotty librarian look. Which is a shame. That does suit you. Except the things that have got cats or bobbles on. Cats and bobbles don't suit anybody.” He pauses for a moment, then cuts a sheepish glance at me and corrects himself, “Though obviously, you’re the only person who ought to be dressing you. I’m not any more qualified to it than is your mother." As he finishes speaking, he tucks the spleen onto the second shelf of the fridge and gives it a loving pat.

"Label," John mutters. Sherlock huffs. "We agreed," John continues, "that you would label the specimens you put in the fridge. Remember the ears?"

"The ears were ages ago!"

"So we've had plenty of time for the lesson to sink in, haven't we?"

Sherlock gusts a long-suffering sigh, digs in a drawer for a pen, then turns back to the fridge and writes JOHN, PLEASE DO NOT EAT MY SPLEEN on the front of the box. “There now,” he says capping the pen and tossing it back into the drawer. “Satisfied?” John only snorts affectionately in response, and Sherlock turns back to me. “Well then, Molly, how long is Millicent staying? Will she be with you long?”

“She’s gone home, actually,” I tell them.”This afternoon. She only came into town for a couple of days.”

“Right,” Sherlock grins at me, “Came to meet Neal, I expect. And perhaps to hear some news?”

“What?” John looks back and forth between the two of us. “What news?”

He’s wearing a little grin as well, and the two of them look so excited that it’s quite hard to tell them, “Neal and I have split up, actually.”

“What?” Sherlock frowns. “Split up? I thought he was going to-”

“He did,” I interrupt. “Yeah, sorry. He did. That’s why we split up, actually.”

John looks confused but he’s frowning as well, “So sorry, Molly,” he says. “I’m a bit lost. What happened?” He glances at Sherlock, who shrugs and cocks his head, his eyes on me.

“Erm,” I look down. John and Sherlock carry on goggling at me, and I start to wonder if I’m blushing, because I think my face is getting hot. “Erm. Neal. Erm. Proposed. To me. So I, er. Ended it.”

“Oh.” John says. I think we’re all three looking at our hands now. Actually John and Sherlock are probably looking at each other. Having one of their stupid eyebrow conversations. That’s annoying. I don’t want to look up and watch them discuss me, though. As if I wouldn’t notice. They think I’m so dim sometimes.

But Sherlock lays a hand on my elbow and smiles at me when I look up, “I thought you liked him." His voice is softer and gentler than usual.

I shrug and look at John, “I did like him.” Sherlock looks at John as well. John looks back at him with a little smile, and despite Sherlock’s hand warming on my elbow, I start to think they’re going to slip away from me like they do sometimes. I’m rather surprised when Sherlock bends and hugs me and kisses my forehead. I wouldn’t have expected him to understand at all, really. Perhaps that was a bit unfair of me.

Sherlock relaxes his hold on me but keeps one arm slung over my shoulder. “Are we tea sad or wine sad?” he asks, with another little glance at John.

“Er,” I look up into his face, and he smiles sympathetically. “Wine sad, always,” I say.

Sherlock gives me another little kiss on my forehead and pats my shoulder. “Get the wine, John? I’ll get the corkscrew.”


	349. Chapter 349

"I didn't even-" I pause to watch Sherlock tip the last bit of wine in the bottle into my glass. "Is there any more?" He looks at John, who nods. "Good." I take a swallow from my glass before I carry on with my sentence. "I never even fancied him as much as I fancied Sherlock. And Sherlock is-" I stop short and glance at Sherlock. John is already snorting into his glass.

"Unsuitable. As an object of your affections," Sherlock finishes for me, hiding a smile. "For various reasons."

"Not that sort of affection anyway," I say, taking another sip of my wine. Sherlock pats my arm and grins at his wine glass.

He has a quick swig before he says, "It's lucky for me that." Here he pauses to struggle with lifting a single slice of water chestnut with his chopsticks, his mouth open, ready to receive it. John and I watch him as he does, silently exchanging amused looks. When he finally lands the thing in his mouth, he looks round at both of us, bouncing his eyebrows and chewing with a triumphant little smile on his face. "What was I saying?" he asks, after dabbing his mouth ceremoniously with a napkin.

"You're lucky," John supplies, chin in hands. He's trying not to smile too much. Losing that battle. I'm trying to imagine looking at anybody that way. I don't think I ever looked at Neal that way.

"Ah yes," Sherlock says after another swallow of wine. "I'm lucky that you two," he waggles his chopsticks at us, "are so difficult to put off. You," he points at me, "watch a near-stranger beat the corpse of your former co-worker with a riding crop, and you think you want to have a coffee with him. And you," he turns to John and taps his chin with the chopsticks. John shakes his head and breaks into a broad grin. "You have your personal life deconstructed in less than flattering terms and call it 'amazing.' And then you're dragged off to look at a crime scene, kidnapped, and. Well.” He clears his throat and looks dreamy for a moment, as if reminiscing about the good, old days. Good, old days of kidnapping and triple murder. Actually why does that surprise me? That’s exactly what Sherlock would call the good, old days. Sherlock clears his throat again and continues after his dreamy moment, “You think you want to move in with the lunatic who's put you through it all." He affects a concerned frown. "You two are a bit not good, aren't you?"

I shrug. "We like maniacs."

"Clearly," Sherlock pats my arm again. John gets up and gets a fresh bottle of wine from the kitchen bench. He refills his empty glass, and reseats himself, leaving the bottle in the centre of the table. We all sip nearly in unison.

"We decided to order champagne," I say. They look at me. "After dinner. We decided to order champagne. Or I suppose he must have pretended to have just decided then, but really he planned it in advance. So it comes out on a little tray, and I spot right away that there's a ring in mine. And I just think, 'Oh shit. I quite wanted to drink that, and it's ruined now.'"

Sherlock snorts and tucks his chin in, as if that will muffle his reluctant giggles, "I'm sorry." He clears his throat, "I'm sorry. It isn't funny. Only I was thinking of how unimpressed you must have looked."

"Very unimpressed," I agree.

"You'd think after all that time together, he'd have picked up on the fact that one does not tamper with Molly Hooper's wine," Sherlock refills my newly-emptied glass.

"Oi!" I say and jab Sherlock's arm with my chopsticks. "I'm not a drunk!"

"No, no, of course not,” Sherlock says, batting the chopsticks away and rubbing his arm with a little smile, as I take another sip of wine. “Excuse me. You were saying."

"Well, so, I was thinking things like, 'how was he planning to fish it out, if I'd said yes? Not with a fork?' and that. Erm. It seemed sort of incredible that he wanted to marry me.”

“Incredible?” John says. “Why incredible? Why shouldn’t he want to marry you? You’re brilliant.”

“Oh. Erm. Thanks John. Erm. Well seems like all we’d been talking about for ages was where we should eat and how Doctor Who doesn’t make any sense anymore.” John nods and I pause and shrug. “At some point in all that sort of. Bleh nothing. He decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. And I just thought, ‘me? Really? Why me? Couldn’t you just as easily do this with anyone?’ He’d turned into a sort of habit. Like a film that got a bit boring in the middle, but you sort of want to finish it just because it’s on, you know?”

Sherlock looks rather horrified at that analogy. “That sounds excruciating,” he says.

“It’s not excruciating,” I say. “Well, you’d find it excruciating.”

“I know I would!”

“It can be sort of. Comforting and frustrating in equal measures,” John pats Sherlock’s knee. “There’s nothing bad about the situation exactly, so you just sort of plod along, hoping to convince yourself that dull and nice will turn out to be enough. ”

“Yeah, exactly!” I take a long sip. The new bottle is nicer than the first one. Or I’m getting pissed. Bit of both probably. “I think I’ve sort of always done this, too. I don’t even know what I like! Not really, I mean. I suppose I’ve got a bit of a type, but. ‘For various reasons’ gay corpse-floggers are right out.”  
Sherlock grins a bit sadly and drags his chair nearer to me, so that he can put his arm round my shoulders. “Well. Neal probably wasn’t gay. Progress.” I snort and prod my noodles with my chopsticks. They’ve gone cold, and they’re starting to congeal.

“I don’t know that there’s anything in that. Types,” John says. “I mean, if I had any qualities in mind, gay corpse-flogger certainly wasn’t on my list.”

“Oh good. I’m so glad that’s catching on,” Sherlock huffs. “Let’s have business cards made up. And a nice brass plate for the door.”

John grins and pats Sherlock’s arm, then leans past him to catch eyes with me. “The things you think you want in the abstract don’t necessarily translate to the sort of person you fit with in reality. Or. I don’t know. I’ve really never been very good at relationships. Ha. Just the one. But you know. There is definitely something that holds this one apart from the others. I’m never bored. Which sounds like quite a lot to ask, I suppose. But.” John sips his wine. “It’s not that we’re always leaping across rooftops and. Ha. Flogging corpses.”

“You do something one time, and you start to get a reputation,” Sherlock mutters. “That was years ago!”

John gives his knee a squeeze and continues, “It’s not the mad stuff that’s most important. That’s not really what I mean when I say that I’m never bored. It’s more that. I’m never sitting round waiting for the next good bit.” He glances at Sherlock, who is nodding avidly. “I mean it isn’t constant bliss or constant excitement, but we’re always. Interested in each other. You know? It isn’t the stuff we do together that matters. It’s him.” John sort of shrugs, then looks at Sherlock and smiles. “Anything to add, love?” John lays his hand on the table, palm up.

When he takes it, Sherlock gives him a look I haven’t seen before. Not quite. This gentle adoration that’s so intimate, I’m rather embarrassed to be seeing it. If I could leave the room silently, I would do. Instead I fix my eyes on my plate, but I can hear that devotion in his voice when he answers. “No, John. That was perfect.”


	350. Chapter 350

I’ve just realised something. 

 

What’s that?  
~Molly~

 

You’re Molly, your mum is Millie, and your niece is Mae. 

 

My mum is Millicent.   
~Molly~

 

That’s close enough. Have you got a sister called Maggie?

 

My mum doesn’t believe in close enough. No, I haven’t got a sister called anything.   
~Molly~

 

Maybe a cousin? Or an aunt?

 

What are you on about?  
~Molly~

 

Don’t you know your cummings?

 

My what?!  
~Molly~

 

Never mind. Sorry. Poet. 

 

Buck up your ideas, John.   
~Molly~

 

I’m sorry! Misunderstanding. I was making a stupid joke. 

 

Next thing you’ll be saying I was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles.   
~Molly~

 

Is this a wind-up?

 

Only a titchy one.   
~Molly~

 

You’re a bit horrible. 

 

That’s why we’re friends.  
~Molly~

...

Impress Me

Sherlock Holmes here. You may have noticed that John and I have been rather out of reach for a bit. If you have been waiting for us to reappear in order to commit a really interesting and original crime, I thank you. Now is the moment for your glorious debut. Have at it. 

Comments (41)

John Watson:  
Don't tell me you're bored. We've been having loads of fun. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Faust was brilliant. 

 

John Watson:  
Yeah! Faust was excellent! Thanks again for the ROH membership, Mycroft. I know you're reading this. It really is nice to have a well-connected stalker. 

 

John Watson:  
And you had fun in Dartmoor, Sherlock. I know you did. Though it wasn't like it was last time. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Billy and Gary were very pleasant. Odd that they remembered us, though. 

 

John Watson:  
We nearly had their inn shut down. What with the thing with the dog. But yeah, they were lovely. 

 

G Lestrade:  
Now, I thought we agreed you wouldn't beg for homages anymore. Anyway what about the kidnapping? 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I have never begged in my life, and I'll thank you to remember that, Gerard. The kidnapping was dull as dirt. I could have solved it at age seven.

 

G Lestrade:  
Gerard?!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
*Greg. You knew who I was talking to.

 

Molly Hooper:  
You're in a mood, aren't you?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Is that like having a temperature?

 

Molly Hooper:  
What?

 

Sherlock Holmes:   
Anyone who is conscious is "in a mood." If you mean that I'm in a foul mood, you ought to say so.

 

Molly Hooper:  
So we aren't wasting our time with politeness, then?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Do we ever?

 

John Watson:  
We do when we don't want to annoy everybody. 

 

Mrs Hudson:  
Now, everyone be nice to Sherlock. He just wants a nice murder, poor dear. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Mrs Hudson. 

 

TMVHP:  
Why don't you update your website anymore?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Didn't see the point. People only ever want to read John's blog anyway. 

 

John Watson:  
Including the queen!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
That's classified, Mr Exclamation Mark. 

 

TMVHP:   
I thought something had happened to you. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Loads of things have happened to me. 

 

TMVHP:  
So I see. I'm catching up on you. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Why should you care?

 

John Watson:  
Catching up on Sherlock? Do we know you?

 

Molly Hooper:  
Since you lot are languishing, want to come and pick me up for lunch? 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I suppose so. 

 

John Watson:  
Thanks, Molly! We'd love to. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
Gerard can come as well, if he likes. 

 

G Lestrade:  
I'm not coming, if you lot are going to call me Gerard the whole time. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Quel dommage. Désolé. 

 

John Watson:  
Shut up, Sherlock. We're all having lunch, and we're calling each other by our right names. You in, Mrs H?

 

Mrs Hudson:  
No, thank you, sweetheart. Bit late for lunch, isn't it? I had lunch with Mrs Turner an hour ago!

 

John Watson:  
Bit of a lazy Sunday morning up here, Mrs H. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Speak for yourself. Some of us have been quite industrious. 

 

John Watson:  
Too busy to get dressed, I suppose?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Shut up, John. 

 

John Watson:  
Never.


	351. Chapter 351

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked up at me, grinning and running his tongue over and over his bottom lip. “John?” he drawled, raising his eyebrows, as if he’d no idea what I might say next.

Which was rubbish, of course. There was an unmistakable smirk in his voice that was just as clear in its meaning as the crooked up corner of his mouth.

“We agreed you wouldn’t stick your fingers in there,” I reminded him.

Sherlock sunk his finger into the jar of honey up to the knuckle before replying. “Actually,” he remarked, withdrawing it slowly, his eyes fixed on me, “We did not agree. You said I mustn’t, and I said I would.” I watched him put his entire finger into his mouth and suck it clean noisily. I tried to roll my eyes.

Not sure if I quite managed it. “I suppose you think you’re pretty clever with that.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed around the finger in his mouth, before pulling it out with a pop. “Not sure if you’ve noticed.” His lips smacked a bit when he parted them to speak.

Sticky. “But I sometimes am incredibly clever.” He pushed two fingers into the jar.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” I didn’t sound convincing even to myself. Not convincingly exasperated, anyway. I cleared my throat. “Putting your fingers into the jar is bad enough without licking them first. Let me make you some toast or something, and you can eat it off that. Or a spoon, at least.”  
Sherlock pulled his fingers out of the jar. These went into his mouth slower than the first one had. He laughed around them, one of his wicked, little rumbles. Would have been really irritating, if it hadn’t been so sincere. I do love his laugh. It does things to me. He pulled his fingers out of his mouth. “I like it like this,” he said, licking his wrist where he’d dripped some honey. “You should try it this way,” Sherlock dabbed just the tip of his index finger into the jar. “You’ll never go back.”

“This is such an obvious trick, Sherlock.” I licked my lips, and he smiled, his eyes on my mouth.

“Oh, John. Do I look like I’m in the mood to be coy?”

I stood and slid the jar away from him, so that it skidded across the table, out of his reach. Folded my arms and looked down at him. “You having a laugh? Bastard.”

Sherlock looked delighted. Bastard. “Am I laughing, John?”

I took his chin between my thumb and index finger and tipped his head up toward me. He grinned so broadly that I nearly broke out laughing, “You can ask for what you want, you know. Instead of this silly messing about.”

“You adore my silly messing about, John. You find yourself tremendously flattered that I go to such lengths to entertain you. You wouldn’t have it any other way. And you should taste it like this. From my finger,” he held up his damp, sticky finger. “It really is the best way. Very,” he paused and licked his lip, considering. “Mmm. Well. It’s very something. I’ll think of the word.Taste in meantime, John.” He beckoned. “You can help me to think. Inspire me.” He held his finger to my lips, then dabbed me with it when I didn’t open them. “There you are. Try it.”

I bent and kissed his smirking mouth instead. His lips were sweet and laughing, even under mine. “Bloody annoying you are,” I told him. And he laughed and laughed and kissed me again.

...

“Bless Billy and Gary for turning to beekeeping after you nearly ruined their inn.”  
“I ruined?!”  
“You shot their ghost. They were nearly forced to close down.”  
“Well bee-farming-”  
“Keeping.”  
“Beekeeping is a more wholesome line of work than. Erm. What would you call it? Scooby Doo-ing?”  
“What? Scoo what?”  
“Never mind. I don’t suppose there’s a word for it.”  
“Ghost husbandry?”  
“That’ll do. Kiss me again, you git.”  
“Mmmm...Such hurtful words, John. In what way am I a git?”  
“All the ways.”  
“I knew you were going to say that.”  
“But you asked anyway.”  
“You get off on me showing off just as much as I get off on showing off.”  
“And putting your fingers into a jar and then sticking them into your mouth is your idea of showing off, is it?”  
“Only because something so small and so simple has such an effect on you, my John. You go all. Flustered. It's excellent.”  
“Yes, all right!”  
“My magnificence is a fortunate overlap in our areas of interest. You adore me. You love a git.”  
“God help me, I do love a git. A ridiculous, exhibitionist git. It’s so unfair, too. Any other forty years old man would look absurd with his fingers in his mouth. You look. Well. Here we are. Absurd works for you apparently.”  
“Thirty-eight!”  
“Thirty-eight and a half.”  
“Hmph. Thirty-eight and a third. That honey really is delectable, though, isn’t it?”  
“I’m sure it’s very nice, but, just for future reference, if I’m eating something off your mouth, chances are I’m thinking a lot more about your mouth than whatever it is I’m eating.”  
“Philistine. I’ll go and get the jar then. You can have another go. Taste, I mean. Another taste.”  
“Don’t you dare move, Sherlock Holmes. You’re well within your term for post-coital imprisonment. Extra time for bad behaviour.”  
“I behaved beautifully. I’m an angel from heaven. You know it to be true.”  
“Mmmm. Bloody smug git. Kiss me again.”


	352. Chapter 352

"Conferring?"  
"Yes. Conferring. It means meeting to discuss something."  
"Right. To discuss something. In a cupboard."  
"I needed a private word with John."  
"A private word like you and me are having right now? Well away from any cupboards?"  
"A privater word."  
"Right."  
"Oh for god's sake, Lestrade! Go back to feigning ignorance, and I'll go back to pretending you're as stupid as you look!"  
"Some people might think that somewhere in there was you asking me for a favour."  
"Ha. Favour."  
"Just be more careful, can't you? If some one else finds you, there isn't a thing I can do about it. Well could, maybe. Won’t, definitely."  
"As ever Lestrade, I am the absolute picture of discreet caution."  
"Right. Erm, wait don't run away. Erm. Can I ask you something?"  
"Something else, you mean?"  
"What is er. Erm. Perkins' situation?"  
"Perkins?"  
"Yeah, with emergency services. The er, paramedic. With the hair, yknow? About so high. Answered the call about the thumbs guy."  
"What do you mean 'situation'?"  
"Well, is she seeing anyone?"  
"How on earth would I know that?"  
"How on earth do you know any of the things you know?"  
"Ask her yourself."  
"Come on. Help me out. I've just helped you."  
"Ergh, fine. She's single."  
"Oh. All right, then. Okay. Thanks."  
"But she'll probably go back with her ex-girlfriend. Going by her left index finger."  
"Oh."  
"Indeed."  
"What about. Erm. Actually. Never mind. Forget I asked."  
"I've forgotten already."

...

 

She's too clever for you.  
-SH 

 

Who is?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

My point exactly.   
-SH 

...

“Hi John!”  
“Oh erm. Hullo Molly.”  
“You lot ready, then? Where’s his nibs?”  
“Erm. Who? Erm. He’s. Something. Somewhere. What? Sorry.”  
“What are you...oh my god, John!”  
“When did you get over here?!”  
“I just wanted to see what you were looking at so intently. Is that you and Sherlock? Did you draw that?”  
“Of course I didn’t draw it!”  
“Well, I don’t know!”  
“You think I draw pictures of me and Sherlock doing that and then sit around looking at them?!”  
“Why are you sitting around looking at it at all?! What is that?! Where did you get it?”  
“Right okay. I wasn’t like. Looking for it. It’s just there. On the internet. Just out there. Waiting. I was just looking for normal photos. I’d been telling Sherlock that we ought to have our picture taken together because we’ve only got that one that you gave us, and he said I should just do a google image search because there’re bound to be loads of photos of us from press conferences and things. And I thought it’d be easier than arguing to just give it a go, and. So I did. But it turns out that in photos from press conferences and things, one or both of us always look like we’ve been sucking on a lemon. So about five pages into an image search for ‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,’ you get. That.”  
“Christ.”  
“Yeah. Our fans are. Er. Inventive.”  
“I wouldn’t be famous for anything.”  
“Yeah, so far as I can tell, it’s just. Bottomlessly horrible. Fortunately we’re not all that famous.”  
“Famous enough for people to draw pictures of-”  
“Yes, all right! If we could just. Pretend this never happened.”  
“Yeah, probably for the best.”  
“You won’t tell Sherlock?”  
“Scout’s honour. You ought to tell him, though. It’d be hilarious, wouldn’t it?”  
“He’d board up the flat and become a proper hermit, I think.”  
“Yes, well. In future, safesearch.”  
“Right, yeah. Lesson learnt.”


	353. Chapter 353

There’s a chill in the room. In the air. It smells of rain, even in our bedroom (rain, dust, my coat, and the merest whiff of John’s skin)(only I would recognise that last bit, I think)(even John wouldn't notice it)(I'd know it anywhere). A dusting of gooseflesh is slowly fading from my skin. John will have me quite warm soon enough. He skims his hand up my torso to raise my nipples into erectness again.

“How’s that, lovely?” John runs a finger under the edge of my blindfold, adjusting it minutely. “Not too tight, not too loose? Nothing tickling?” I shake my head. “Hmm? What’s that? Didn’t catch that.” I picture John cocking his head and cupping his ear. I know the expression that’s married to that tone.

“Just right, John.” I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, lovely.” John’s hand lands in my hair. He gives it a light tug. “I’m going to take good care of you, aren’t I?”

Swallow and wet my lips. “Yes, John.”

“Of course I am.” John pulls back on my hair to tip my chin up. The bed shifts and groans softly under us as he leans forward to kiss me. Lightly (teasingly), but his hand in my hair tightens as he does, and he finishes by catching my bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. “Mmm.” John sits back with a little sigh, his hand still in my hair. “Gorgeous. You are gorgeous. You’re blushing already, lovely. Mmm.” He lets go of my hair and runs a light finger just under the edge of the blindfold. Lovely. Lovely. Bite my lip to keep from squirming. “Here across your cheekbones. It’s just starting now. Next I’ll see it here.” He brushes his fingertip along the rim of my ear. The bed trembles again, and John’s knee shifts against my thigh. I can hear his breath (I think I'd know that sound anywhere)(romantic notion)(don't care) before his mouth touches my ear. Even so, I gasp when I feel his tongue. His answering humming huff of satisfaction and heat as he sucks my earlobe into his mouth sends a shiver through me. Squirm a bit (can’t help it) and John hums again (so pleased with me already).

John draws back. His breathing is just slightly unsteady. Lovely. “Ahh,” he says after a moment. His voice is just above a whisper. “It’s started here already,” he rests a hand low on my throat. “We’re coming along nicely, Sherlock.” He applies just the barest amount of pressure and only for a moment before he shifts his hand down to my chest. “And here.” He sweeps his hand across my chest (shiver at the sensation of his hand moving against the grain of the hair). “Gorgeous.” He leans forward, kisses up my chest to my collar bone and nips delicately at the hollow of my throat. John’s little hum of satisfaction is amused when I gasp and rock upwards, catching him by the hips and pulling him to me. “No, Sherlock,” he says, drawing back. “Hands to yourself, remember?”

Drop my hands reluctantly, “Yes, John.”

“Very good,” he says. “Oh god, look at you. So beautiful.” I can hear the sharp, slick sounds of John stroking himself. Squirm a bit and dig my fingers into my own thighs. I want to touch him. “So patient, aren’t you?” his voice is low and rough. I think I hear him lick his lips. God I want to look at him. I want to touch him. Want to taste him. “Lovely,” he sighs. “Mmm, have a treat.” The bed shifts as John edges closer to me and I can feel his hand hovering near my face before he says, “Here you are, love. Lick this.” I obey eagerly (his hand is damp already and tastes of tart pre-come)(I love all his flavours). Barely have time to be disappointed when he withdraws his hand a moment later, because he makes a ragged little sigh when he resumes stroking himself. It sounds slicker than it did before. Lovely. My mouth is watering. John lays a hand just below my ribcage and lets it sit there a moment, warm and heavy before he says, “I think I’ll come here. Would you like that, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John! Please!”

“You first, though. Would you like that, love? Would you like my mouth?”

“Please, John! Yes! Please!”

“Mmm, what pretty manners, my lovely love.” I feel as much as hear the little thump of John stretching out in front of me. Part my knees to accommodate him and feel his hair brush against my thigh (shiver). I can feel his breath as well. A warmish tickle on my groin, and I’m tempted to press forward towards the source. But John wants me to be patient. I can be patient.

He makes a contented sigh. It seems quite a long time before he says quietly, “You’re blushing here, too.” And he brushes a damp, light kiss on my cock. “What a lovely colour.”John’s mouth is soft and just slightly chapped, and the warm drag of his lips against the shaft makes my middle tighten and coil with anticipation. Gasp and shiver hard, and I can feel John smile against me. Feel a hot little huff of his pleased exhalation. “Ohhh,” he says, giving my cock a squeeze (shiver again) “We do like this, don’t we?”

“Yes, John!”

“Yes! God, I love it when you say that to me!”

“Yes, John!” And oh fuck, John’s mouth is on me. Roll my head back and push up into that warm, wet pressure. John hums at me and presses back against my hips with his shoulders (delicious stretch in my hips and along my inner thighs). Realise I’m holding my breath when I let it out with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. John draws back a bit on my cock, then takes it down deeper than before and draws back again to suck on the tip. Fuck. His mouth is so wet. John rolls his tongue over the head, and there are undignified, breathy, quavering sounds drooling out of me. That’s all right, though. He likes that.

The pressure of John’s mouth grows warmer and slicker as he bobs, establishing his rhythm. Quick on the downstroke, slow on the upstroke, and coming nearly completely off every few strokes to suck hard at the tip and run his tongue rough over it. I squirm hard every time, and John pushes back against me, holding me down.

Lovely. John curls his hand loosely around my scrotum (he knows I’m getting close). When he gives me a gentle tug and squeeze on his upstroke, I jolt so hard that John actually laughs aloud through his mouthful of me. And that does me. I arch up into John’s laughing mouth and come.


	354. Chapter 354

“Sherlock Holmes, if you touch that phone, I swear to god, I will chuck it out of the window.”  
“My text alert went!”  
“Right, I heard it. Don’t touch it.”  
“It could be a case.”  
“It could be a million cases.”  
“Heartless.”  
“Right, I’m so heartless that I want a cuddle.”  
“You’ve had one.”  
“About four minutes of one. The way I see it, you’ve got eleven minutes left. At least.”  
“You should set your watch.”  
“Might do.”  
“What if David Tennant’s been kidnapped and we’re the only ones who can save him?”  
“Ah, suddenly you’ve learnt David Tennant’s name. Because you’re trying to get out of a cuddle. Go on, then, if you’re so keen. Me and David will just have a little quality time while you text his kidnappers. Where’s the charger for my laptop? I think the battery is nearly dead, and I’ve got, oh just loads of DVDs to get through.”  
“Erghhhh.”  
“No, no, no. You don’t get to check your phone while I would still be all afterglow-y, and then complain about me watching Doctor Who.”  
“Science fiction is rubbish.”  
“So’s your timing.”  
“Hmph.”  
“Hmph indeed.”  
“How many more minutes did you say I’ve got left? Eleven?”  
“None of that. I don’t want your cuddles anymore. You’ve ruined them.”  
“They’re still good.”  
“No, they’ve gone off. Me and David can do better.”  
“Oh, you’re a package deal now, are you? You and David?”  
“Yep. Me and David.”  
“I’m taller.”  
“He’s got better hair.”  
“John!”  
“And I like his suit better.”  
“Liar. He wears it with sandshoes.”  
“I like that.”  
“Liar!”  
“Oh, all right then. David will allow you a cuddle just this once.”  
“Generous of him.”  
“Yeah, he’s lovely like that. Kiss me. Mmmmm. All right. I’ve gone off David. I’m back on you. It’s your mouth that’s done it. Gorgeous mouth.”  
“Mercy of mercies.”

…

“No, not this one.”  
“I can’t even watch one?”  
“Watch a dozen, just not this one.”  
“But this one is my favourite.”  
“This one? Really? This one is your favourite?”  
“It’s a brilliant episode.”  
“I hate it.”  
“You hate all of them.”  
“Just not this one, John. Please.”  
“Well what’s wrong with it?”  
“The way he just. He knows he’s got to say it, and he just stands there making his stupid speech, and she’s crying, and she loves him, and he can’t get it out. And he knows he's got to go off and be by his miserable self again and he still wastes his chance, and I just hate it, all right. Not this one. The next one. Not this one. Please. I hate it. I can’t look at it. Please.”  
“Oh. Right. Okay. Erm. Something else, then. Will you read to me? Let’s have the cummings. Okay?”  
“Okay. I’ll go and get it.”  
“Thanks, love.”  
“Yes. Sorry.”  
“It’s fine.”

...

Stay put.   
-SH 

 

Okay. I was planning to. 

 

Why am I staying put? Just out of curiosity?

 

Are you still in the flat?

 

In the kitchen.   
-SH 

 

What’s happened to the kitchen?

 

Accident.   
-SH 

 

Anything to do with Rule 4? Should we be evacuating?

 

No. Nothing to do with Rule 4.   
-SH 

 

Kitchen is a bit more bio-hazardous than one would generally prefer.   
-SH 

 

Clearing it up now.  
-SH 

 

Do not come and look. I have it under control.  
-SH 

 

Christ. Of course it is. What have you done?

 

I haven’t done anything! I did forget to do something.   
-SH 

 

Is it to do with that sudden horrible smell?

 

Excellent deduction.  
-SH 

 

Though it’s not particularly sudden. I noticed it before I even came into the kitchen.   
-SH 

 

Can you get your nose checked the way you get your eyes and ears checked?  
-SH 

 

No, you can’t. My nose is fine. You just have the palate for corpses. 

 

It isn’t a corpse, obviously.   
-SH 

 

Not a whole one anyway.   
-SH 

 

Fantastic. 

 

Nearly finished clearing up.   
-SH 

 

Going to need a shower after, though. 

 

Brilliant. 

 

Do I still get my toast?

 

If you want it dry. Butter’s a bit spleen-y.  
-SH 

 

The spleen! I knew nothing good would come of the spleen!

 

It was all right when it was in the polystyrene box.  
-SH 

 

My last experiment only liquified it a bit quicker than I expected.   
-SH 

 

Anyway, spleen all tidied away now. Getting in the shower.   
-SH

Join me?  
-SH 

 

No, you don’t. You can’t mix spleen accidents with being all alluring and soapy. 

 

Why not? Has there been a law passed?  
-SH 

 

I know a deflection when I see one. 

 

How tidied away is the spleen? Making a horrible smelly rotting mess at the bottom of the bin?

 

Well I’m not going to put it outside now. I’ve already taken my clothes off. I tied off the bag. It’ll keep.   
-SH 

 

It demonstrably is unable to keep.

 

Why’ve you taken off your clothes?

 

Shower, John. Do keep up.  
-SH 

 

Come in with me.  
-SH 

 

Well all right. 

 

No sex. 

 

Why not?!  
-SH 

 

You’re all spleen-y. 

 

Mind your interrobangs.

 

That’s why I’m having a shower!  
-SH 

 

So unspleen yourself and we can renegotiate. 

 

You are so fussy.   
-SH 

 

You’re the only person in the world who could possibly think that. 

 

My speciality. Hurry up.  
-SH


	355. Chapter 355

Happily Ever After

I suppose it’s unprofessional to call a client a git, but our last client, Lord St Simon was a bit of a git. A few days ago he sent Sherlock an email declaring that he’d be by Baker Street at 3 that afternoon to discuss a matter requiring our immediate, undivided attention and said he trusted that if we had any other appointments on, we’d postpone them. Right. Best foot forward, then.

If the name Lord St Simon rings a bell, it may be because it’s been in the papers that he was recently married to a young American woman called Jenny Doran. Which generally Sherlock would take absolutely no notice of but for the disappearance of the bride between the ceremony and the reception. Sherlock found the timing intriguing because generally runaway brides disappear before actual marriage takes place, but Jenny Doran went through with the ceremony and disappeared just as the reception was beginning.  
From this detail, Sherlock deduced that she’d gone into the ceremony willingly and that something must have happened between the ceremony and the reception that had changed her mind.

When we interviewed him, Lord St Simon told us that Jenny had seemed her usual self leading up to the marriage. Cheerful, vivacious, and excited about their future life together. After some pressing, he admitted that he reckoned there was a little change in Jenny's attitude just after the ceremony. On her way out of the church, Jenny had dropped her bouquet, and a lady in the street had picked it up and handed it back to her. Jenny had snapped at him when he mentioned it to her, and been distracted and agitated on the ride back to his home, where the reception was to take place. Then once they were at home, she told him that she wasn’t feeling well, and she wanted to sit down in their bedroom for a bit before entering the reception. She never did come into the reception, and one of the household staff claimed to have seen her slip out of the house wearing an overcoat on top of her wedding dress and with her hair tucked up in a flat cap. At the end of the interview, Sherlock announced that he’d solved it already and that he’d have found Jenny herself by the end of the day. Lord St Simon just sort of scoffed at him. Funny how many people know the astonishing things Sherlock’s done and come to him for help, while still being completely skeptical of his abilities. Bit ridiculous, if you ask me. If you don’t know that Sherlock’s a marvel at this point, you’re just a plain idiot.

As it turned out, a friend of ours with the Met was also working the case in a more official capacity. Gerard, let’s call him. Anyway, friend Gerard turned up for a grumble and an informal consultation. He was actually investigating an ex girlfriend of Lord St Simon’s, Flora Miller, who’d apparently been tweeting some nasty and vaguely threatening things about Jenny shortly before the wedding, and had actually been removed from Lord St Simon’s property and arrested for trespassing on the day of the ceremony. Sherlock suggested, with all the tactfulness and sensitivity he’s known for, that he’d got the wrong end of the stick, and Gerard went away in a strop. Although first he showed us some rather important evidence that he was sure was proof of his theory of foul play on Flora's part. Jenny’s wedding dress had been found in a skip not far from Lord St Simon’s home, and there was a note stuck in the sash that read, “Can we talk? I’ll wait here for you.” And it was signed by “FHM.” Sherlock wasn’t actually bothered about the content of the note, but it was written on the back of a receipt for a hotel carpark. And of course, this hotel is where we found Jenny Doran. With her wife.

Yes, you read that right. The woman who picked up the bouquet was her wife! Well sort of. Jenny and her wife, Frances Moulton, were never legally married because Frances was in the US Army, and sadly, gay people were not allowed in the US military until 2011. Even their families disapproved, and Jenny and Frances were forced to keep their relationship secret. Frances was deployed to Iraq in 2011, and tragically was captured and held prisoner for three years! I can’t imagine living through a nightmare like that on either end. Jenny managed to find out through Frances’ family that she was missing and presumed dead, but was never notified when Frances was recovered. When Frances returned to the States, of course she went looking for Jenny immediately, but she learnt that Jenny had moved to the UK to be married and didn’t successfully locate her until the day of the wedding! That day outside the church was the first time Jenny had seen her wife in three years! She nearly fainted on the church steps. She was sure she was seeing a ghost, she told me.

Once reunited with Frances, Jenny had wanted to slip away to the States, but Frances didn’t like that idea. She was tired of their relationship being bogged down in secrecy and shame. Well Jenny couldn’t disagree with that because if they’d been able to live openly, she might have been reunited with Frances that much sooner. Sherlock arranged for them to meet with Lord St Simon to tell him their story, and honestly, he was a complete tosser about it. Said he’d been shamefully mistreated and wouldn’t even shake hands with Jenny to say goodbye! I think Sherlock was a bit embarrassed to have him as a client, actually. He hugged (well permitted hugs from) Frances and Jenny. And once we got back to Baker Street, Sherlock and I had a little chat and decided to send them on a mini break to Paris, since they’d never got to have a proper honeymoon. So we had one more goodbye with Frances and Jenny before they left, and I don’t mind saying it got a little teary all around.

Comments (35)

Sherlock Holmes:  
You are determined to make me out to be a complete romantic, John. You are projecting.

John Watson:  
Not a bit. Those are just the facts, love. And I seem to recall Paris being your idea :)

Jacob Sowersby:  
WHAT AN INCREDIBLE STORY!!!!!!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Jacob. It was a matter of ignoring extraneous information and focussing on what was relevant.

Molly Hooper:  
Not blubbing right now; can’t think how those rumours got started.

Molly Hooper:  
Really, though, that’s a beautiful story. It’s like a fairytale.

Frances M:  
Thank you again!!! Paris is amazing! We’ll send you a souvenir!

Sherlock Holmes:  
No need.

John Watson:  
Maybe a postcard? Or some photos would be lovely! Glad you’re having a good time!

Frances M:  
Yeah, we’ll send you some pictures! Gotta get back to the missus! Talk to you later!

John Watson:  
Have fun! Our best to Jenny!

Harry Watson:  
You’ve gone soft in your old age, Jack! :*D

Harry Watson:  
*John. Sorry.

John Watson:  
It’s fine. :) How’s Karen?

Karen A:  
She’s very well, thanks!

Sherlock Holmes:  
All these exclamation marks. Are they going to pass a law against them next week or something?

John Watson:  
Nice try at playing the curmudgeon, Sherlock. You can’t fool us, love. Not me, anyway. I know you for real.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Indeed.

TMVHP:  
Is it really supposed to be some sort of secret that Sherlock’s a romantic? I’ve always thought it was quite obvious.

Bill Murray:  
Hang on. If Jenny’s a lesbian, why’d she marry that bloke anyway?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Is that a joke? You can’t possibly be serious.

John Watson:  
Some people aren’t gay or straight, Bill.

Bill Murray:  
Oh! Of course! Right. Sorry. Put my foot in, haven’t I?

John Watson:  
Happens to the best of us.

G Lestrade:  
Are you really going to call me Gerard all the time now?!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Twice is not “all the time.” Don’t exaggerate, Gerard.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Are we going to spend the rest of the evening typing to each other, John?

John Watson:  
And he tries to say he’s not a romantic. Good night, everybody. Mustn’t keep my husband waiting.

Molly Hooper:  
Good night John! Good night, Sherlock!

Harry Watson:  
Good night!

Mrs Hudson:  
Good night, sweetheart!

Mrs Hudson:  
Sweethearts, I should say!

Sherlock Holmes:  
Just hush, the lot of you. Stop distracting my husband and go to bed. Or whatever. I’m not bothered what you do, so long as you go away.

Molly Hooper:  
Definitely a romantic.

John Watson:  
:)


	356. Chapter 356

“Sherlock!”  
“Shhhh!”  
“What was that?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Nothing? It made a ping when it hit the wall.”  
“Nothing of importance.”  
“It was my trouser button, wasn’t it? You’ve just chucked my trouser button over your shoulder.”  
“Well I was holding it in my other hand the whole time. My hand’s all sweating now.”  
“But you’ve chosen this moment to get fed up.”  
“Ha, I wanted to wipe my hand on your trousers without you noticing.”  
“Well the game is up.”  
“Apparently so.”  
“And what do you suggest I do to keep my trousers closed, now you’ve torn off the button and chucked it into a dusty, cobwebby corner of a broom cupboard?”  
“I didn’t tear it off! It popped off. I was a bit. I was enthusiastic.”  
“Ha, very flattering, love. Question stands, I’m afraid.”  
“Just do up the zip and no one will notice...oh.”  
“Yeah. Oh.”  
“Well leave your shirt tail out and cover it.”  
“My trousers won’t stay up that way. Anyway, it’s conspicuous!”  
“You always think people are so ready to suspect us.”  
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one going round all. Disheveled.”  
“You like me disheveled.”  
“Right, I do like you disheveled, but that isn’t the issue at hand here, Sherlock. Train your great brain on my trouser problem.”  
“Oh bits of it at least are always on your trouser-”  
“Yes, all right! I suppose I’m going to have to go home and get a new pair of trousers.”  
“I’ll get us a cab. You stay here and preserve your dignity for as long as possible. I’ll text you when I've got one.”  
“No, you don’t. If we both go home, you’ll only wheedle me into staying there. I’ll go. You stay. Not in the cupboard, Mr Clever. At the bar. Or get us a table, if you’re feeling kind. Wait for Greg, and get me my usual. I’ll be right back.”  
“Erghhhh.”  
“Mmm, it’s lucky for us both you’ve got such a gorgeous pout, love. We see enough of it. Give us a kiss for the road, then. Mmm and Sherlock?”  
“John?”  
“Do something about your knees before you leave the cupboard, all right? People will talk.”

...

“What are you doing here?” I hear Sherlock’s stroppy voice, before I spot him coming out from the little nook where the bogs are. He must have already had a few because he’s a bit pink in the face. He ruffles his hair as he comes toward me and bends to kiss my cheek without losing the rather sour crook to his mouth.

“It’s a pub,” I tell him after he straightens up. “Public place. I can come in, if I like. Anyway, I was invited.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and mouths the word ‘invited.’ I shrug. “Gerard,” he says, as if he’s caught me out.

“Oh, well done you. It wasn’t you or John, and I didn’t invite myself, so you’ve cunningly worked out that Greg invited me. Brilliant detective, you are.”

Sherlock huffs a little at this and turns to the bar, trying to catch eyes with the barman. “Chummy,” he says without looking at me, and he sounds as if he’s actually talking about chopped up fish bits and not friendship.

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock gives me a disgruntled look. “Go and find a table,” he says.

“Has some one taken yours?” I look round. “Where’s John?”

“I hadn’t got one, yet. Go and find one. I’ll bring you a drink.” And he turns pointedly to the bar again. I reckon it’s easier to just find a table and wait than to try and badger his back. I choose a table against a wall and near a window (had to lurk and wait for a couple to put their coats on really really slowly for that one). Sherlock turns up a minute later with a pint glass in each hand, wearing a smug look that bodes ill.

“Where’s John?” I ask as he sits, trying to head off whatever line of questioning he’s stockpiling.

“He had to pop home,” Sherlock says. “He’ll be right back. And where is your Gerard?”

I open my mouth to contradict that ‘your’ bit, then decide that’s what he’s hoping I’ll do. I shrug, “He’s slipped out of his tracking collar again. Text him.”

“Text him yourself. You’re the one with the influence.”

“You’re the one who wants to know when he’s going to be here. Some time before we leave, I expect.”

“Mmm, indeed. Fellowship is the evening’s agenda, I suppose. All friends together?” Sherlock is watching my face. Doing that stupid eyebrow thing. I take a pull off my pint and lick away the foam that sticks to my top lip. “We’ve never had you along on one of our little gatherings, have we, Molly? Quite an omission.”

“Cheers,” I say and have another sip. Drinking sometimes makes quite a good substitute for talking. So long as you don't change your mind halfway through the night and decide to start up talking again.

“Our Gerard is just. All brimful of brilliance this evening, isn’t he? In contrast with his usual way.”

I want to ignore that. I know he’s trying to provoke me. “Greg,” I say through gritted teeth, my eyes fixed on my glass.

“Mmm?”

“Greg. You know it’s Greg.” I look up at Sherlock, and he looks so pleased with himself that I feel a little stab of annoyance, which I know is going to lead to blurting. I always blurt when I’m annoyed enough. “I know you talk about him like that because you think he doesn’t mind what you say, but-” I take a long pull of my drink instead of finishing that thought. Good plan, if I do say so myself. Pissed and grumpy is the way to go tonight, I think. I glance up at Sherlock, and he doesn’t look smug anymore. Bit sulky, but hopefully he’ll stop trying to investigate me. His brows are knit. He’s frowning, but he looks concerned rather than annoyed. “He does take you seriously,” I tell him and sip my drink.

Sherlock finally takes a long pull on his own. His first. He sets his glass down with a little thump and smacks his lips. “Thirsty,” he says to himself, as if a bit surprised. He watches me unabashedly for the following few moments of silence. Observing me.

“Another thing,” I say, after a long gulp of my drink. Nearing the bottom of it now. I’ve timed this rather well, actually. “You don’t know anything about me that I didn’t tell you.”

Sherlock frowns again. Confusion this time. “Your favourite colour is yellow. You get anxiety when you go to the hairdresser. You love Austen and Brontë and Wilde because you’re a romantic, though you wish you weren't,” he grimaces sympathetically at that, and the little flash of self-awareness in the middle of this obtuse speech is so striking that I’m tempted to laugh. “You’re mildly lactose intolerant. You played the flute at school, but you get frustrated when you try to play now. You attempt to approach absolutely every cat you see. You were in the Girl Guides. You used to swim competitively.” Sherlock sips his drink and sits back on his stool. That smug look is creeping over his face again. “Have I got anything wrong?”

“I’m not lactose intolerant.”

“You haven’t noticed yet.”

“Well that isn’t what I meant, anyway. You may think you know something about me. You may think you’ve seen something about me.” I point at him sternly, “Unless I’ve told it to you it’s. Not admissible. Okay?”

Sherlock looks at me carefully, then gives me a cunning sort of smile. It’s quite irritating. “I understand completely,” he says. I’m rather afraid he may wink. If he does, I'll pour my drink on him.

“That goes for the content of this conversation as well,” I say. “You’re not the only person who ever notices things, you know. It’s just that some things are not good manners to mention.”

I shouldn’t have said that, actually because he tilts his head and raises his chin, “You mentioned that I was in love with John. Before.”

“I’m not-” I shake my head. “I was helping, not trying to embarrass you.”

Sherlock scowls, “I don’t try to embarrass you on purpose! We’re friends, aren’t we? We. Have.” His mouth prims up, and he silently casts about for a suitable word for a moment. “We have discussions. About. Important things.”

“Right. Friends have discussions. Mutual discussions. Friends don’t read each other aloud like a menu. All right?”

“I do not-” Sherlock thinks better of his protestations at my expression. “Yes, all right. Fine.”

“Good, then. I’ve got this round.”

Sherlock mutters, “He isn’t clever enough for you.” But I am generous enough not to take any notice, as I slide off my stool and make for the bar.


	357. Chapter 357

Come here at once.  
~Molly~

 

This is your husband.  
~Molly~

 

Sherlock Holmes.  
~Molly~

 

Right, I know who my husband is.

 

Are you still at the pub?

 

I’m on my way.

 

Why’re you texting from Molly’s phone?

 

Yes, I have been at the pub for about seven years now.  
~Molly~

 

She said I was being sour and unsociable, so she took my phone off me and poured quite a lot of beer down my throat.  
~Molly~

 

So I nicked hers from her bag, and I’m in a toilet cubicle.  
~Molly~

 

Look what Molly Hooper has reduced me to, John. She is utterly without mercy.  
~Molly~

 

Give her back her phone.

 

Of course I’m going to give her back her phone.  
~Molly~

 

What do I want with her phone? It’s ancient  
~Molly~

 

How is it that Molly’s there?

 

Where’s Greg?

 

She was ‘invited.’  
~Molly~

 

Why’ve you put inverted commas round ‘invited’?

 

I’ve been very sternly informed that I don’t know.  
~Molly~

 

I see.

 

No, you don’t. Hurry and get here, and perhaps you will.  
~Molly~

 

I’m coming as quick as I can. Bumped into Mrs Hudson and got held up putting the rubbish out for collection. 10 mins.

 

Hurry up.  
~Molly~

 

Oh dear. I think something’s gone amiss with my trousers again. I may have to turn back.

 

I will come after you, John Watson.  
~Molly~

 

This is still your husband.  
~Molly~

 

Sherlock Holmes.  
~Molly~

...

I found Sherlock and Molly sat at a table near the window, both a bit pink-cheeked and giddy, with a collection of shot and pint glasses between them on the table.

“John!” they said in unison when they spotted me, then turned to glare at each other and giggled.

“Well you lot are having a good time,” I said, taking a seat next to Sherlock and clapping him on the back. “Hello love. All right, Molly? Got your phone back?”

“Hey!” Molly jabbed at Sherlock with her elbow. “Thief!”

“You’ve got your phone back, Molly! And you took mine! Fair’s fair,” Sherlock said, deflecting Molly’s jab and aiming one at me. “Take care to recall on which side your bread is buttered, John Watson,” He leaned in and whispered to me wetly, “See if you ever find out about that thing I don’t know.” And tutted, quite loudly.

I started back, rubbing my ear. “You two are a bad influence on each other. Is Greg here yet?”

Molly narrowed her eyes and looked from me to Sherlock. “He’s getting another round,” she said, indicating the bar with her chin.

“I’ll just help with that, then, shall I?” I slid off my stool and gave Sherlock another little pat before I went.

“Hello, John. You’ve turned up, then,” Greg said when I found him at the bar. “Sherlock was sure you’d fallen down a storm drain or something.”

“Ha, here I am. I met Mrs Hudson on my way out and got sidetracked. I’m a forty years old man who isn’t allowed to go out without putting the rubbish out.”  
Greg laughed and passed me a pint. “Have you seen these two?” he asked, gesturing to Molly and Sherlock with his thumb. Out of the tail of my eye, I could see that the pointing had caught Sherlock’s attention. He kept his eyes fixed on Molly, but he seemed to have pricked up his ears. “Pair of lightweights, they are. They really shouldn’t be left on their own.”

“Ha yeah,” I sipped my drink. “I was just telling them myself that they need a chaperone to stop them drinking too much and pulling each other’s hair.”

Greg snorted, “Yeah, when they’re particularly brother and sister-y, it’s like they’re a couple of really tall primary schoolers.”

I looked over at the pair in question properly and grinned. They were openly watching us with uncannily similar suspicious expressions. “It’s sort of nice, though, isn’t it?” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“Well I don’t really know about Molly, but Sherlock at least didn’t have the usual sort of family, you know? So it’s.” I shrugged. “It’s nice to see those bits get filled in, you know? Even if it is rather late.”

“Oh, well,” Greg grinned as well. “It’s never really too late, is it? You lose things, you pick things up. The world turns, and you sort of chug along with it. Sorting things out as you go. If you’re lucky. I mean you’re always filling in bits, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I took another long sip of my drink. “If you’re lucky.”

...

 

“Well?”  
“Well?”  
“Lestrade and Molly!”  
“Bill and Mike!”  
“What?”  
“Oh, sorry. Are we not just yelping the names of people we know?”  
“I don’t yelp, John.”  
“Ha, of course not. How could I suggest it?”  
“They fancy each other.”  
“Bill and Mike? I think you might be reaching a bit there, love.”  
“Have you recently attended a seminar in how to be tiresome and unfunny?”  
“I suppose it’s wrong that I want to kiss you when you look so grumpy and say such rude things.”  
“Wrongness is to be expected of you, John. You are notoriously perverse. Well help yourself, then.”  
“Mmmm...anyway. You were talking about Greg and Molly.”  
“They fancy each other.”  
“Maybe.”  
“Obviously.”  
“Well, so what? Why shouldn’t they fancy each other?”  
“He’s not clever enough for her.”  
“I’m not clever enough for you.”  
“Don’t talk nonsense, John.”  
“Right, exactly. There you have it.”  
“Hmph.”  
“You like Greg.”  
“Mm.”  
“There’s no use pretending. If you didn’t like him, you’d sooner burn a pub to the ground than sit next to him in his local and have a drink.”  
“He is often not intolerable.”  
“I’m going to tell him you said that.”  
“Don’t even think about it!”  
“I know it seems a bit. Odd. But you’ll be used to it soon enough.”  
“Perhaps.”  
“Well, it’s good to have a partner, isn’t it?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“And you wouldn’t begrudge them that, if they wanted it, would you, lovely?”  
“Not exactly, but. We’re. Outliers, aren’t we John? You and I?”  
“Outliers, lovely?”  
“People in general don’t often manage to be as happy together as we are. You see what I mean?”  
“Ah. Yes, I think I do. Well, love. Best anyone can do is try, mm?”  
“Indeed.”


	358. Chapter 358

Cosy?” John asks, half-turning to look over his shoulder at me.

He’s stretched out on his front, reading. I’d been lying next to him looking at the book, but it got dull, and I decided to examine John instead.

I arrange myself a little more comfortably in my place on the back of his thighs, “Quite. You’re a good seat.”

John chuckles and turns back to his book, “Well I do my best.” His shirt has rucked up slightly, exposing a new patch of freckles on the small of his back. Rub my fingertips over each, as if I might be able to feel a difference. First quite firmly, then in a quick, light brush. John shivers (lovely). “That tickles, Sherlock.”

“Mmm?” Bend and lick at the patch of freckles. John shivers again and giggles. Lovely.

“That tickles, Sherlock! I’m trying to read, you menace.”

“Am I stopping you? My apologies.” I stretch out and settle myself down on John so that I’m lying flush on top of him with my hips against his hips and my chin hooked over his shoulder. He grunts at the weight of me and shifts under me a bit. I can feel warmth coming off his scalp and his throat, and his smell is so hot and vivid here. I want to dip into it. His left ear is a bit pink. Run my tongue along the rim of his ear and suck the lobe into my mouth. John draws in a sharp breath. His book falls shut. I swallow a laugh and lick for the prick of the old piercing.

“Menace,” John sighs (lovely). “I surrender. Let me turn over.” He wiggles his hips, and I raise up to let him turn. John rolls onto his back and parts his knees to accommodate me as I settle back down onto him. He smiles up at me lazily, his pupils already dilated, and grins when he sees I’ve realised that he’s hard. “Matched set, right lovely?” John sinks a hand into my hair. Shut my eyes. Sigh and nod. John gives my hair a sharp tug and rocks his hips up to press his erection against my belly. “Oh, I see,” he says in his beautiful low rasp. “Now you’ve got me going, you’re going to make me do all the work, aren’t you, Sherlock?” And he tugs my hair again, hard enough to make my eyes prick. I shake my head, and he pulls my hair again (as hoped). “Mmm? What’s that? Were you answering me, lovely?”

“No, John.”

“No, you weren’t answering me, Sherlock?”

“No, I’m not going to make you do all the work.” My voice is already rough. John’s right hand is resting on my hip, light and hot and promising.

“Open your eyes, Sherlock.” I do, and the little smile John’s wearing makes me shiver. He cocks his head, considering, then taps my side with his knee. “Up, please. I want a word, if you don’t mind.”

“Bossy,” I say, pushing up onto my knees.

John sits up and leans back against the headboard. “And it’s your favourite thing in the world; you needn’t bother pretending. You’re going to want your energy for other things.” He pats his chest as he speaks, and I eagerly take the spot offered to me. John wraps an arm around my shoulder when I lean against him, and the hand in my hair is gentle and delicate. Still makes me shiver. John kisses the top of my head. “Mmm, Sherlock. You are so beautiful. Did you know?”

“A man whose opinion I rely on utterly has had some fairly complimentary things to say on the subject.”

John laughs. “My lovely love,” he says and kisses my hair again. “Gorgeous,” he says, after a moment. Almost absently.

Reach over and give his cock a little squeeze as a polite reminder of the matter at hand. “You wanted a word?”

John jumps and laughs and pushes up into my hand a bit (lovely). “I did want a word, yes. Careful with that now,” he says when I begin to stroke him. His voice is going raspier. It makes my mouth water. “You’re going to make me forget what I wanted to say.”

“Talk faster, then.” I slow my hand anyway, because I am obliging.

“Sherlock, I’ve a request.”

“Mmm? I’m listening.” Lift my chin to kiss along his jaw. I suck at his pulsepoint and feel it speed under my tongue. Lovely. Shift more onto my side and begin to rub my own erection against his thigh.

“Not even a request,” he says with a delicious hitch in his voice. Irresistible. Speed my hand. “A suggestion.”

“A suggestion? Mmmm.” Nip at his jaw and suck his pulsepoint again. “How very demure of you, Captain.”

John sort of sighs and pauses. His hand in my hair is beginning to tighten. Lovely. “Sherlock, I asked you for something that you maybe weren’t sure about. A bit ago.”

“Mmm?”

“I wanted you to fuck me. I want you to to fuck me. If you want to.” He uses my hair to tip my chin back again so that he can look into my face. “Do you want to, Sherlock?”

Nearly don’t have the words to answer his suggestion. The fewer, the better, I suppose. “God yes, John! Now, this minute?”

John laughs. “Now, in several minutes? That soon enough for you, lovely?”

“In your own time of course, John.”

John gives me a kiss. Slick and hot and long and patient. He nips my bottom lip with his teeth a bit before he draws back. “Well, lovely. I’m just going to go and, erm. Sort myself out. And then you’re going to help me get ready for your cock. Yeah?”

I nod and kiss him, and John makes a little answering hum of satisfaction that thrills in my mouth and my stomach. A little blaze of anticipation and delight that, as ever, my John has found something new to show me.


	359. Chapter 359

“Ahhhohfuck. That’s three, isn’t it? Jesus. Yeah yes. Like that. Good. Fuck... Bit slower? ...Mmmoh. Okay, let’s...yeah. On your back? …No, not flat. Sit up and lean against the headboard. D’yneed another pillow? God. Your face. Gorgeous. Mmm. Kiss me...Mmmm. Where’s the condom gone? ...Oh, here. I’ll put it on for you, lovely; my hands are clean. How’s that? Okay? You ready, lovely? God, look at you. Yes, you are, aren’t you? ...Fuck. So gorgeous...That’s not quite...yeahh. There you...Oh. Fuck...oh fuck. No, it’s. Don’t pull out...Just. Give me a moment. Don’t move...God. Fucking. Okay. Fuck. Hang on. Don’t move. Let me... Oh god. Sherlock. You’re so. Fuck. You are so lovely. Look at you…How’s that, Sherlock? You like that, love? Fuck. ...Look at you sweating and blushing. So fucking gorgeous. Kiss me...Mmm. Christ. ...Ohhh god, I love it when you say my name that way. Say it again...Say it again...Again. Yes! Ohhffffuck. Look at me, Sherlock... So beautiful. So fucking gorgeous. Kiss me...Ahmmmm. You can move, love. Slow...Yeahhh god. Like that. Yeah, just like that Sherlock. Touch my cock. Ahhhohgodfuckohgod! ...Jesus...Look at me, Sherlock. Open your eyes. Yes... God, you are so gorgeous. Fuck! Ahhfuck...Oh. Do that ag-ahhh! Yeah, like that. Fuck. Oh god. Yeah. Yeah, Sherlock, fuck me! Oh. Christ. Ohhhfuck. Sherlock. Are you getting…? Yeah? You getting close, lovely? Yes, that’s it. Bit…? Yeah, come on, love. Oh god. Fuck. Yes, you are so gorgeous, aren’t you? Ohhh. Oh fuck. Sherlock. So beautiful. Come on, lovely. You going to come? Yes, Sherlock, yes yesyes. Yes, come! That’s right, lovely. Yeah...So gorgeous. Ahhh. Sherlock.”

...

John clutches me for a long, long moment. He clasps his hand to the back of my head and buries his face against me. I can feel his breath on my throat. Hot first, then cool on the sweat there. His chest is slick with perspiration and rises against mine so quick. I can feel his heart beating. I’m awash in his heat and his smell and his quick quick pulse. After a bit, he reaches behind him to hold onto me while he lifts off very slowly with a little hissing inhalation.

John slumps forward onto me, laying his cheek against mine with a little sigh, “Mmm. Sherlock.” I open my mouth to answer his murmur, and he kisses me. And everything in the world is John’s sweat and his pulse and his warm, wet mouth. He pushes one hand between us and begins to stroke himself, and the slick sounds of his hand on his cock mingle with the slick sounds of his mouth on my mouth. Lovely.

I wrap my hand around John’s on his cock, and he nips at my mouth and drops his own hand to my waist. Give him quite a hard squeeze, and he jolts and moans and thrusts up into my hand, tugging hard at my hair until my eyes prick and water. His mouth goes rather slack, though he doesn’t lift it away from me. Lovely.

I stroke John’s cock unhurriedly, squeezing on the downstroke. John thrusts on the upstroke, digging his fingers into my side when he does. I can feel little tremors running through his thighs against mine, and each time he thrusts, I roll my thumb over the damp head of his cock. Clasp John to me by the back of the neck and bite down hard (almost too hard)(just shy of breaking the skin) on his lower lip.

John gasps sharply, “Ahhh! Sher-!” And he shudders hard and comes hot over my fist. Lovely. Shift my hand down from his nape to his back, pressing him closer, and John hooks his chin over my shoulder, shivering and panting. Lovely, lovely, lovely. I clutch him more tightly. Skim my hand down his back, relishing the gooseflesh that rises in the wake of my fingers.

When his breathing has slowed a bit, John clears his throat. His voice, nonetheless, is rough when he speaks, low in my ear. “Well. Fuck.”

“Again? Goodness. Not just yet, John. Ask me in a couple of hours.”

John breaks into wheezy giggles and sags off of my lap onto his back on the bed, looking up at me with the sort of wide-eyed joy that it almost hurts to look at. He looks me over and rolls his head back, laughing harder. I grin as well, though I’m not sure what he’s laughing about. Doesn’t matter. It’s a lovely sound. My John’s laugh. I can’t hear it unmoved.

“God,” he says, after recovering himself a bit. “Mmm lovely, you are in a state, aren’t you? I’ve made quite a mess of you. Going to have to pop you into the tub.”

I look down at myself and feel my grin broaden. I’m steeped in John. Smeared with him. Reeking of him. It’s perfect. “Indeed.”

“Give me a moment, though,” John says, and that particular smile is starting in his dark blue eyes. The one that makes me shiver. Lovely. “A moment before we tidy ourselves up, love. I want to remember the sight of you just like this.”


	360. Chapter 360

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock was sat between my knees in the tub with his head propped on my chest. “Mmm?” He sounded just this side of sleep.

It made me smile as I answered, “Just tell me, for my own peace of mind, that you didn’t borrow the bath cushion you gave me from Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock snorted and slapped the water, splashing me. “Don’t be absurd, John.”

I splashed back. “Only it rather appeared out of nowhere. And it’d hardly be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock delicately flicked away the water I’d splashed on his face, cocked his head to look up at me, and bounced an eyebrow. “How intriguing. In your estimation, what was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done?”

“The hijacking,” I said at once.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake.The tourists hardly even noticed the hijacking, John. And I gave the bus right back. Just as soon as I'd finished with it.”

“All right then, clever boots.” I stroked his fringe back from his face, and Sherlock shut his eyes and hummed blissfully. “What would you say was the most absurd thing you’ve ever done?”

Sherlock answered without hesitation as well. “I used to smoke a pipe.”

I laughed. “A pipe? What? When?”

“University. I used to be extremely pretentious, John.”

I laughed again. “Formerly extremely pretentious and now they’ve had to invent a new word to describe how pretentious you are.”

Sherlock tutted and splashed me again without opening his eyes. “Not pretentious, John. Only rather high-minded, and goodness knows there isn’t enough of that in the world.

I kissed the top of his head. “Not your particular sort anyway.”

“Mm. Indeed.” Sherlock felt for my hand in the water and when he’d found it, he raised it to kiss it and hold it to his chest. Then he was silent for so long that I thought he really had gone to sleep until he spoke again. “It’s lucky for me that we did not meet until we did. I don’t think you’d have taken to me under different circumstances.”

“Right.” That quite hurt my feelings, though I knew he didn't mean anything by it. “Well. I disagree.”

“I don’t mean that as a reflection on your capacity for affection, John,” Sherlock raised my hand to kiss it again. “Only you didn’t know me, then. I was. Not good.”

“How d’yknow you’d have taken to me?” I began to stroke his hair with my free hand.

Sherlock huffed, “I may have been an idiot who went round with a pipe in the mid-nineties, but I was never quite that stupid, John.”

“Well there you are,” I kissed his hair. “Nor was I.”

“It can hardly be called stupidity to dislike some one so thoroughly unpleasant, John.”

It took me a moment to reply because I was momentarily distracted by wanting to find whoever had put those words in his mouth and thump them repeatedly. “Well there aren’t many people who are the very best version of themselves between ages sixteen and twenty-five, lovely. But you didn’t blink into existence in Bart’s as the brilliant, fascinating, charming, hilarious, and lovely man you were and are in the five minutes before I met you.” I kissed his hair again, and Sherlock sighed. “People are changing always, you know. Erm. Maybe the man you are now wouldn’t have been as well suited to the version of me that you met back then. It's impossible to say, isn't it? I mean. I think that we came along at the rate we were meant to. You know? Well at the rate we could, anyway. At the rate we had to. Mmm?” Sherlock nodded a listening sort of nod, rather than an agreement nod, so I pressed on. “You’ve always been morbid, arrogant, a bit mad, and. Hmm,” I paused. “Nuanced? Complex? And. That’s all brilliant. I like that.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and grinned up at me. “You do, don’t you?”

“It’s exactly what I like. To an outrageous and occasionally dangerous degree. Always have done. Always will do. So ten, twenty, forty years on, you’ll be some version of mad, morbid, arrogant and complicated, and I’ll be some version of whatever it is that makes me completely wild for those things, and we’ll still get on like a house on fire. Mmm? And I like to think that if we’d met ten or twenty years ago, we’d still have been mad for each other. You’ve always been Sherlock Holmes, and I’ve always been John Watson. Matched set, lovely.” Sherlock hummed and kissed my hand. “I probably would have taken the piss out of you about the pipe, though,” I said after a moment. “Bloody hell. A pipe? Really?” Sherlock giggled and splashed me. I splashed back, tightening the arm I had wrapped round his middle. “You should find the pipe and we can do a black and white photo of you with the pipe and the hat for the blog. I reckon people’ll think you look really. Dashing. Detective-y. Very. Romantic. Old-fashioned. You know. All those things you really aspire to.”

Sherlock splashed hard enough that we both got a sort of interior tidal wave right in the face. When we’d finished spluttering and coughing, he said with a preternatural level of dignity for a man dripping with bubble bath by his own hand, “Do recall that I gave you the cushion you’re sitting on, John, and I can take it away. Think of the comfort of your backside in the tub before you venture to voice such outrageous suggestions again.”


	361. Chapter 361

Stretched out on the sofa on my back, my arm drawn over my face, my eyes gritty with sleep. It’s three o’clock in the morning, and John and I’ve just got home from a rather brilliant case (‘amazing!’ ‘fantastic!’ ‘incredible!’ ‘marvellous!’ ‘astounding!’) John has been looking at me all evening as if he cannot quite believe his eyes, and that in tandem with the adrenaline has made me rather giddy.

No coat cupboard, though. Pity. Likely John will wake feeling extremely affectionate (mmmmm) but there’s nothing like the influence of the adrenaline high just after we’ve finished being dually wonderful(I say 'finished'). We’re both still buzzing with it a bit too much to actually be able to go to sleep, though I can see John sagging under his tiredness just as much as I can feel my own. He’s in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. I can hear him humming to himself. The piece I composed for him. The newest one. Light. Lovely. Consider getting up from the sofa to play it for him. He’s been ages over the kettle, now I think of it. Get up and go into the kitchen to have a look.

John is standing at the fridge, looking into it. He looks up when I come in and smiles at me. “Bloody starving,” he says. “Are you hungry? When did we last eat?”

I think for a moment. “Yesterday breakfast. Apart from the biscuits in Lestrade’s office when he was interviewing us after we solved it.”

John shakes his head, tutting. “Pair of idiots,” he says. “Sit,” he points at the table, and I sit. “You want soldiers, lovely? Or fried eggs and mushrooms?”

“Just as you please, John.” I fold my arms on the table and lay my head on my elbows. John comes over to me and kisses the top of my head and strokes my back. I turn to wrap my arms around him and lay my head against his middle (mmmm his smell)(wool and buttery sweat and just a hint of evergreen). John runs his hand from the top of my head to the middle of my shoulder blades several times.

“Mmm,” he says after a moment, as though stroking me has helped him to think. “The portobello is about to go off, I think. Let’s do that.” I nod. John kisses my hair again and pats my back lightly, soliciting permission to disengage. I drop my arms from him and straighten up. “Food’ll be ready in a bit,” John tells me, with one last little pat on my shoulder. I nod and slump over the table again. Exhausted. My vision is beginning to sparkle.

John goes back to the worktop, and I listen to him humming and bustling about, getting the food ready. Shut my eyes and tell myself what he’s doing without looking. Peeling the mushroom (surprisingly distinct sound), slicing it. Mmm sharp smell of an onion. No. A shallot. Too small to be an onion, going from the sound of the chopping.

“Sliced, not diced,” I say.

“Obviously,” John answers, and I can nearly hear the roll of his eyes.

“And butter, not-”

“Sherlock, I’ve made this about a thousand times. I know what you like.”

I smile at that. “Mm. Indeed.” Tick of the knob as John lights the hob. He’s using the cast iron skillet, going by the weight of the clang. The hot smell of melting butter always makes my mouth water. Primarily because it smells like the sweat on John’s chest (mmmm)(swallow).

Must’ve fallen asleep because I wake with a start at the little thud of my plate when John sets it in front of me. I tuck in at once. John sits next to me and watches me eat with a little smile, before beginning on his own food.

“I’m getting old,” he announces after we pass a few moments in quiet chewing.

“Hmm?”

“I say I must be getting old,” John replies, having a rather noisy sip of his tea.

“Is that so?” I answer through a mouthful (trying to slow down to avoid the hiccoughs and a stomachache, but the food is delicious and I’m famished).

“Mmm, mhm.” John’s mouth is full again, and he swallows hard before he finishes his thought. “It used to be that I loved the mad bits best. The dashing about, crime fighting, storybook hero bits. Yes, storybook hero. Don’t you scoff at me. And I still love them--you were gorgeous tonight, by the way, absolutely brilliant--but now my favourite bits are these bits. When I’ve got you to myself. I mean, everybody knows you’re brilliant. But I get to see you with drool on your chin, and sleep lines on your cheek, stuffing your face with fried mushrooms at half three in the morning.” Swab my face hastily with a napkin and glare at John, which elicits a warm, fond laugh. John leans in and speaks quietly for his next remark, and there’s a touch of Captain Watson in his voice and eyes, “Because you’re mine.”

Try to shake off a shiver (unsuccessfully)(mmmm) and answer with affected carelessness, “Well yes, John. Obviously.”

John sits back in his chair, his eyes fixed on me and laughs again, that warm, fond laugh. It makes me shiver. Mmm.


	362. Chapter 362

“I don’t know where you think you’re going.”  
“I’m definitely going to the toilet.”  
“Oh. I suppose that’s all right then.”  
“Ha, generous of you, love.”  
“And then straight back to bed.”  
“And then breakfast.”  
“Breakfast?”  
“Right. Breakfast. ‘Swhat scientists are calling it. Toast, coffee, and the like.”  
“Can’t you derive sustenance from my affection?”  
“What a world that would be.”  
“I mean to keep you in bed all day, where I can look at you.”  
“Have I got to be in bed for that? Or can’t you see me in the kitchen and the sitting room as well?”  
“I mean to be in bed all day.”  
“If only we’d all got the constitution of a layabout detective.”  
“I’ll make it worth your while, John.”  
“Oh you will, will you?”  
“Indeed I will.”  
“I like that sound of that. Go on, then. I’m listening.”  
“Well you’re the only item on my day’s agenda, John. I am at your disposal.”  
“Goodness.”  
“Indeed.”  
“So you’ll do anything I like, then?”  
“Of course.”  
“Absolutely anything?”  
“Anything your depraved mind can imagine, John.”  
“And you don’t feel rash making this promise?”  
“If you’ll recall, I have long been completely at your disposal and subject to the depraved workings of your mind. I’m no more uneasy about it today than I am any other day.”  
“That’s rather flattering, love.”  
“I, in turn, am flattered that you think so, John.”  
“Well, I’ll have a think about it. Tea and toast?”  
“Thank you, John. Hurry back.”  
“Of course.”

...

When I came back with the breakfast, Sherlock was lolling on his back with Smoke lying in my spot next to him.

He sat up when I entered and nudged her away, "Ah John, you're back. How long you've been away."

"No, I haven't,” I set both mugs down on my bedside table and passed Sherlock the plate. “I just went to the toilet and got some food, like I said I would. Ha. That’s an unfortunate choice of words. Got the food from the kitchen. Obviously."

"Well stow your chat, and get back into bed," Sherlock said, beckoning imperiously.

"All right, keep your hair on, then. There wasn't any marmalade, by the way, so you've got blackberry jam."

Sherlock affected a theatrical pout, "No marmalade? A tragedy indeed. This jam you've spread makes rather a sad swap." He didn’t seem to think it as sad as all that, though because he tucked in at once.

I got into bed next to him and started on my own toast. "Why're you talking like that?" I asked.

Sherlock gestured for his tea. I handed it to him, and he took a long draught before he answered, "My John, I fear I don't know what you mean."

I gave him a little peck on the cheek. "Fine, be weird and mysterious. I know you get off on it."

Sherlock turned to me to catch my mouth for a kiss, and I could feel his sticky, crumby smirk under my mouth. "Of course you'd know the most of that."

I snorted. "Too right I would. I know you're up to something funny, Sherlock. Can't think what."

"You wound me, John!” Sherlock clapped a hand to his chest and shut his eyes. “I am no man for such skullduggery."

"You're just the man for any sort skullduggery.” I shook my head. The word was sticking in my craw. “Skullduggery. That's. Why are you talking like that?"

"Whate'er I am, I am for you." Sherlock smirked and crammed half of his slice of toast into his mouth, then took another long draught of tea.

"So you are doing something, then?"

"Perhaps a bit." Sherlock cocked his head and grinned, bouncing his eyebrows.

“There’s no way you look that smug, and you’re not up to something.” Sherlock looked eagerly back at me but said nothing. “I suppose I’ve got to work it out for myself.”

Sherlock chewed his toast and tapped his chin, considering. After a bit, he swallowed hard and said, “‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desires?’”

“Is that a clue?” He nodded. “I don’t know what that means.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “For god’s sake, John. Where did you go to school?”

“Oi!” I nudged him hard, and he glared when his tea slopped out of the mug. "Oh, whoops. Sorry, love." I grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on my night table and mopped him up.“You know where I went to school, and I know you’re quoting Shakespeare. I just don’t know what it means.”

“Iambic, John.”

“Iambic.” I thought for a moment. “It’s poetic metre, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded, looking even more smug, “It is indeed.”

I grinned. “How sweet. Iambic is the rhythm of the human heart, you know. Terrifically romantic of you, lovely.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I knew you’d say something like that.”

“Yet here we are.” I gave him another kiss on the cheek and ate a bit of toast. “Anything for me, mm lovely? Even poetry.”

Sherlock thumbed some crumbs off my lips and chin, “‘I have no precious time at all to spend; nor services to do til you require.’”

“This is how we’re entertaining ourselves today, is it?”

Sherlock licked his fingers and set his dishes on his bedside table before settling back in his pillows and leaning against my side. “Well, if it pleases you to carry on.”

“I don’t know that I could play quite the way you’re playing, though I do quite like your game, lovely.”

Sherlock wrapped my arm around his shoulders. “It’s easier the more you go along.”

“Mmm,” I stroked his arm. I was beginning to feel a little drowsy. I reckon Sherlock could sense it, because he nudged me with his head. “I’ve sort of got an idea, love. A way for me to get in on your game.”

“A treat for both. I’d like to hear your plan.”

“I think it’ll be more fun if I show you.” I paused to think and tapped my fingers against my thigh to test the metre of my next sentence before I spoke it, “Will you sulk, if I get out of bed? I promise you I’ll only be a bit.”

Sherlock beamed. “Iambic, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sherlock is quoting is Shakespeare's Sonnet 57.


	363. Chapter 363

John returns to the bedroom grinning, with the brown box cradled in one arm. The box that holds our new(ish) game. He gets back into bed next to me and leans heavily against me, reaching up to kiss my cheek.

“Want to play iambic deductions, lovely?”

“I am at your command, as said.”

John smiles, “Isn’t that a treat? Well,” he shakes the box gently. “Shut your eyes, and I’ll pull out some clues.” Smile and shut my eyes. “No peeping.”

I shake my head, “I never would.”

John shifts the cards round in the box, for a few moments, then nudges me gently with an elbow. “Ready, lovely?”

I open my eyes and smile at him, “Standing by for you, my John.” John hands me a card, and I study it for quite a long moment, as it takes rather a bit to think how to say it. “Professional photographer but not our artist friend.”

“Well go on, then. Tell me how you know that.”

“The lines around the eye suggest the habit of a squint. But only in the left; you see the right remains unlined. The left she puckers up; the right-” I fall silent as I cast about for a synonym for ‘viewfinder.’ John is extremely distracting; he smells absolutely delectable. Have a quick sniff of his scalp (mmm)(he doesn’t notice; that’s good)(the sniffing unsettles him) “The right, it gazes through a scope!” I finish triumphantly.

John nods, considering. “Might be a rifle scope she’s been squinting down, you know. Maybe she’s an assassin.”

Snort before I can stop myself, which makes John grin. “Oh, I think not,” I say.

“You think not, eh?”

“Indeed I do. I do think not.”

John laughs, “Right then, clever boots. Why not?”

“Her artsy clothes, of course! And just what sort of hired gun wears so much jewellry?”

“Mmm,” John drums his fingers once on his chin. “That one’s a bit thin, lovely.”

“I’m shocked! You dare to doubt the thickness of my-” I pause, but there really isn’t another word for ‘deduction’ so I end my sentence with a growl of frustration that sends John into a rather wheezy fit of giggles. Try to glare at him, but can’t help grinning when he’s laughing like that.

“Mmmm,” John kisses me when he has recovered himself enough. Not a mere placation, I think. A kiss of. Interest (mmm). “I’d never doubt the thickness of your anything, lovely.”

“I would hope not. My thickness is impeccable.”

John gives a low, warm, little laugh (mmmm) and leans in to speak against my ear, “Sherlock,” he strokes my jaw, then lightly down my neck (mmm)(gooseflesh)(swallow shiver). “Would you call me terribly fickle, if I proposed another pastime?” I open my mouth to reply and shut it again when John kisses my neck. “Say you would, and let me convince you,” he murmurs. God yes.

Shut my eyes and tilt my head to ease his way. “A fickleness that I can understand.”

John laughs again and bites my earlobe, which makes me twitch and shiver. “I thought you might say that.”

...

“My John.”  
“Mmm. Sherlock. Oh.”  
“Oh what?”  
“Are you still doing the iambic? Or have you given it up?”  
“You jostled it out of me, so I thought I’d leave it. I like talking to you properly even better.”  
“Ha yes, I did jostle it out of you. And I like you talking to me properly better as well, lovely.”  
“Good. Kiss me.”  
“...Mmm bossy.”  
“You’re one for talking.”  
“You love it.”  
“So do you...what’s that look?”  
“Ha, I was just thinking if it’d be more impressive or more annoying to listen to you having an orgasm in iambic.”  
“Ah well, you always find me impressive. Especially when I’m annoying.”  
“True. Before you ask, I’m now wondering if there’s such a thing as an annoying orgasm.”  
“I could manage it, if anyone.”  
“You manage a lot of improbable things, don’t you?”  
“I really do.”

...

“Developer solution.”  
“Hmmm?”  
“Her top had a developer solution stain on the cuff. Used in developing photographs.”  
“Oh, from the game.”  
“Yes, the game. And aren’t you going to ask me how I knew it wasn’t a self-portrait?”  
“Oh, I thought that was a bit obvious, actually.”  
“Did you?”  
“She’s the artist’s lover.”  
“And how do you know that, John?”  
“From her expression.”  
“Indeed?”  
“Yeah, well. She’s looking at some one who thinks she’s inspiring, isn’t she?”  
“I suppose she is.”  
“Well, there you are. I’d know.”


	364. Chapter 364

"Stay with me."  
"I've got to go to work, lovely."  
"Don't leave me, John. Please."  
"Well, I might see patients here, but I suspect you'd get rather fed up with that quite quickly."  
"I could help."  
"Help how? Lop off bits of them for experiments?"  
"Would that not be helpful?"  
"Ha, I'm afraid not, lovely. I'll be back before you know it."  
"Doubtful."  
"Now Sherlock, you did spend all of yesterday wrapped round me like a feather boa."  
"Hmph. Boa constrictor."  
"Feather boa constrictor."  
"Well. Yesterday was a start, but I'd like to adorn you continuously for another seventy or eighty years, at least."  
"So you shall lovely, so you shall."  
"Then you see you've got to stay here."  
"Are you all right, love? Are you ill?"  
"No, no, I'm fine. Go off to your job and leave me to languish here."  
"Now how can you anticipate languishing, when you've got all those toenails in the vegetable crisper?"  
"Oh, yes! I forgot about those."  
"Well there you are. Run wild with your toenails, my lovely love."  
"Toenails are a rather pitiful substitute for your company, John."  
"Flattering, love. Very flattering. Tell you what. We'll have a night out tonight, all right? Just the two of us."  
"The two of us and the rest of London."  
"Well, you think on it, and you can tell me what you like when I get home, all right? Kiss me? ...Mmm. I'll see you soon."  
"Mmm. If not sooner."

...

“John, wait!” John does not wait, and his key hits me in the face when he chucks it over his shoulder. I catch it, when it bounces off and pocket it. I manage to catch the next key as well, but the one after that lands on the stairs, and I crouch to pick it up.

“Aha!” John says. Mercifully, he has found the door key. “Too many keys,” he says mournfully. “That’s the trouble. Sherlock. All these keys. I don’t need so many. Why’ve,” he trails off, distracted by trying to get the key into the lock. It keeps sliding out. He gives it up as a bad job for the moment and turns toward me. “Sherlock, why? Erm. What was I saying?”

“Keys,” I say, reaching to take his out of his hand.

John draws his hand away from me and turns back to the door, tutting. “I can do it, Sherlock. I can key. You. You’re underestimating me. I can.”

“Never,” I say, not bothering to swallow my smile, as John’s back is turned. John is so charming when he’s not trying to be charming (and when he affects charm)(John is always charming, always worth looking at)

“Ah!” John has finally landed his key in the lock, and he cocks his head over his shoulder and bounces his eyebrows at me. “Eh?” He turns back to the door, chuckling to himself.

Sadly the key sticks. John jiggles it in the lock with mounting agitation and noise, both from the lock and his mouth. He curses the key, the lock, the door, the flat, and his own fingers with impressive originality.

“Shhhh, John. Shhhhhhhh.” I pat his shoulder and raise a finger to my lips. I know better than to try and take the key from him again. It certainly will not make him quieter. “You’ll wake erm. Er. Mrs Hudson!” John claps a hand to his mouth, and I do the same to muffle my shout of laughter that slips out at his expression. We stare at one another, each giggling into our hands and trying to compose ourselves. John clears his throat behind his hand and takes half a step back from the door, nodding at it. “Thank you, John.” I lean past him to unlock (after only two tries!)(impressive is a relative measure) and open the door. John steps into the foyer, pulling me behind him as if he is not quite sure that I know to follow.

John draws me up the stairs, ascending remarkably lightly and silently, considering his inebriated condition. Wonder if this lightfootedness is another glimpse of Captain Watson (why’ve I not spent more time thinking about John’s tread)(an oversight sure to be corrected in future). Once we’re inside of our own sitting room, John draws me to him by my lapels and gives me a whiskey-sweet kiss. I feel him sway toward me a bit (he’s gone on tiptoe), and I wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. John hums and leans into me, and I rather expect to be backed against the door or pushed onto the sofa. Tighten my arm around him.

John sighs a hot little gust against my face and draws back slightly, still holding my lapels. “I feel chatty,” he announces. He drops another little kiss on me before finishing his thought (or perhaps the kiss helps him to find the thread of his thoughts again). “Come here, you.” John takes both of my wrists, tows me to our chairs and pushes me into his by the shoulders. He grins and cocks his head. “No, that’s not right. You silly.” He points to my chair. “There. Do it. Do it properly, Sherlock. Proper. Proper chat.” He tugs me up again, and we seat ourselves properly for our proper chat. John only beams at me for a bit (eighty-four seconds)(ish). “Pretty,” he says. “You’re handsome and pretty both at once. It really isn’t fair.”

I grin, “Am I?”

"Mmmm," John breaks into giggles again. "You don't even know, do you? You really don't? You don't? Sometimes I can't tell when you're pretending." He leans forward and chins his hands, resting his elbows on his knees and smiling such a warm, fond smile.

Shake my head. "Not pretending. I believe you, though. You think I'm pretty. You say so lots."

"Mmmhm, so you are. The nice lady at the pub thought so, too." Roll my eyes at this, and John laughs harder. Perhaps because in this state, he is fairly helpless to do anything else. “Don’t know that I blame her trying to chat you up, love. If I’d just seen you, I’d’ve been trying to chat you up as well.”

“Oh?”

“Of course. Mmm.” John leans back in his chair and regards me with a hungry, little smile for a moment (mmm)(swallow a shiver)(love it when he looks at me that way), then draws his chair nearer to mine. “Do you think I might have persuaded you to go home with me? Mmm? If I’d just met you tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Would that have been your immediate aim? Lust at first sight?”

John draws his chair a bit nearer still (can easily bump his shoe with mine, if I like) and smiles into my face, his eyes hooded, pupils dilated, his mouth just ajar (can see that his tongue is considering coming out to wet his lips)(mmm). He looks me up and down, then fixes his eyes right on mine. “Hello,” he says after a long moment, smiling more broadly.

Makes me feel mysteriously shy (!), and my voice is surprisingly small when I answer, “Hello.”

“I’m John.”

“Sherlock.”

John looks around, as if surveying our imaginary pub. “You here with your mates, Sherlock? Or your,” he smiles a slightly different sort of smile here, “girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? Ah, no,” I say. “No girlfriend. Not my area.”

John nods, “Boyfriend, then?”

“I haven’t got a boyfriend.”

“Excellent. Good,” John wets his lips (mmm) and grins. “Nor have I. Good.” I want to answer, but all I can really think is how much I want to kiss the moisture on his bottom lip before it evaporates (this is a very unscientific experiment)(no matter; we know the outcome already)(always irresistibly, irretrievably, indelibly attracted)(still, it’s fun to play)(my favourite playmate). John lets the silence sit between us for a moment before he speaks again, more quietly than before. “You’ll be a bit bored then, I expect.” His voice is going raspy (I know from experience precisely what that means)(mmmm).

“Hmm?”

“Sitting here on your own. You look a bit restless, Sherlock.”

“Do I?”

John nods and draws his chair even closer. Our knees bump, and John shifts his leg slightly to maintain the contact. “If you like, I could buy you a drink. And, ah,” John lowers his eyes (such lovely, thick eyelashes) his grin is almost a laugh, “try and entertain you.” And he raises his eyes back to mine. “Mmm?” He cocks his head, wets his lips (determined to kiss it away this time).

I lean in, “You want to entertain me?”

“Would you like that, Sherlock?” The game, I believe, has fallen away. John’s leg is pressed against mine and he’s rubbing his knee against my thigh.

Shiver. Sigh. Shut my eyes. “Oh god, yes.”


	365. Chapter 365

“I like chest hair,” John says absently, petting at mine.

“That’s a lucky coincidence,” I answer, tipping my chin up to solicit a kiss.

John kisses me before he replies, “I don’t know that I especially liked it before. I like it because you’ve got it, I suppose.”

Try and think if I like anything because of John (what don’t I like because of John?). “I like being tall.”

“Oh of course,” John gives my hair a gentle tug (mmm)(shiver)(not his intent)(pleasant side effect). “You like towering over me, don’t you, you lanky git?”

I lean back into his hand and shut my eyes, “I like that even though I’m bigger than you are, you make me feel so.” Pause to choose a word and rather lose myself in his hand on my chest and his hand in my hair. “Defended? Cherished. I like folding up small to fit against you.”

“Mmm,” his hand in my hair softens. He’s silent for a moment. He’s thinking if he wants to shift my position and kiss me. That isn’t a deduction; it’s an intuition (dangerous)(only permitted with John)(John allows a completely unheard of margin for error)(with me). “Of course,” he says after a time. “Cherished. Right.”

I lift his hand from my chest and kiss it. “Honestly everything you are seems. Just right. I don’t suppose I ever told myself in so many words that of course I’d want a man with a handsome stride, impossible tri-colour eyes, a relentlessly sarcastic mouth, and beautiful shoulders. Or that if I’d been asked to describe my ideal companion and could stop sneering at the suggestion long enough to comply with it, I would have named a romantic, crack-shot, blogging army doctor.” John snorts at this (don’t blame him; I sound ridiculous)(no matter, as he’s quite enjoying it, too). “But of course you are my ideal companion, John. Beyond ideal. Your peculiarities answer mine just so. If we have, ah, encouraged certain of each other’s oddnesses, that can hardly be surprising.”

“Mmmm,” John hitches me up just a bit and kisses my temple. “I don’t suppose I would have picked puzzle cyclone wildfire house cat out of the husband catalogue, if there were such a thing.” Give him rather a vicious jab in the ribs with my thumb, and he giggles and squirms. “Ow! Menace!” he kisses my temple again. “I’ll admit that I’m quite fond of your stride as well, lovely. Not to mention your shoulders and your eyes. And I didn’t realise before that only lovely curls will do. And your relentlessly pedantic sort of mouth is my favourite sort of mouth, particularly your dimples when you smile at me like no one else gets to see. And obviously I’d want a man who takes really long walks and plays music that he wrote for me to keep me company when he doesn’t fancy chatting. And I didn’t know that I’d love to have my freckles counted or to be listened to with a stethoscope.” John’s voice has dropped to a sort of low hum. A bedtime sort of voice. “And you know what I really, really like?”

“Yes, but tell me anyway.”

John laughs and squeezes me (lovely). “Ha, I like that I’ve got my own private Sherlock Holmes. You know what I mean?”

“Tell me what you mean, John.”

“Mm I love that I’ve got. Well. Hmm. Er. Well there’s the Sherlock Holmes I met, you know. Bit of an arrogant sod. Brilliant, gorgeous, dynamic, hilarious in a very particular way.

And a bit. Hmm.” John is silent choosing his words for so long that I suspect he must have fallen into a reverie. “A bit naive? Yeah. Naive. That’ll do. Well there’s him. Still spend loads of time with him. Love him; he’s great. And there are the bits of you that are sort of private. The bits of you that are for at home, you know. Oh, like I was saying the other day. About drool on your chin and sleep lines on your face. And there’s a nice sort of intimacy there. Flatmate stuff. Ha.” John gives me another little kiss on my forehead, and I raise his hand to my mouth again to echo his kisses on the back of his hand. “Homey stuff. Cosy stuff. You know.”

I nod, “I do know, John.”

“Right, of course you do.” John nods as well and falls into another of his rich pauses. I can nearly hear him sorting through his thoughts the way he sifts through his box of photo cards when we play our picture deductions game. I let go of his hand so that he can resume stroking my chest while he thinks (lovely). “And then there are bits of you,” he says, “that you aren’t holding back from everyone else for propriety’s sake,” John chuckles here at the thought of me attending to propriety (will pinch him for that later)(don’t want to distract him from this revelation)(more fun when he isn’t expecting it, anyway). “There are bits of you that only I get because. Well because only I’m. Me. You know?” He waits for me to answer, but I keep silent. “Like. The way you say my name fifty-seven times in every sentence. But you say it like. You’re conjuring me. Like you’re working some magic on me. Or like I’m some magic myself. Or, erm. The way you look at me right after you play something you’ve written for me. Before you even drop your bow, you know? I don’t know what to call it. Nobody else in the world has ever looked at anybody that way. It’s. Only you can look that way. And only at me. Or.” John makes a wry little sound. “I don’t know if you noticed at the time, but I used to be really, really jealous. All the time. Jealous of anybody you touched or anybody you smiled at. Anybody you talked to or anybody you were polite to. Jealous of your violin, practically.”

He drops his voice even lower (would feel rather ashamed of my slowness and my stupidity, if John weren’t addressing me with such sweet reverence). “I wanted so badly to be. Hmm. I wanted...I wanted to mean to you just a little bit of what you meant to me." Glad he isn't looking at my face; my eyes are pricking. Blink hard and lower my head to nose John's chest (soothing smell)(lovely). "You know?” He clears his throat. “You were so...I was so. Dazzled. You know?” He doesn’t wait for me to nod, but I do anyway. “I just. Fucking adored you. Ha. Still do, obviously. Fucking adore you. But, erm. It’s funny how. It’s. Reciprocity changes everything, you know? You love me like I love you! It’s. It changes everything. It makes me feel, ha," John sniffs, and I find his free hand in the blankets and squeeze it. Kiss his chest (his heart is accelerating)." Thanks, lovely." He kisses my hair. "You love me like I love you. It makes me feel fucking superhuman!”


	366. Chapter 366

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have the words to say how grateful I am for all your support. I never thought I'd come so far with this piece, and I could not have done it without all of you. Thank you so much. By the way, if you'd like for us to get to know each other better, come and find me on tumblr! I'm http://msaliddell.tumblr.com/.

“John Watson.”  
“Sherlock Holmes.”  
“John, I want to solicit your expert opinion.”  
“Do you? Goodness. Go on, then. What about?”  
“What other bits of me are in your reach, only?”  
“Oh, loads of them.”  
“Yes, I know loads, but which specifically? I like to hear you talk about me.”  
“Ha, it’s a good job I’m quite fond of your ego, lovely.”  
“Indeed. We’d not have made it nearly so far, if you weren’t.Tell me.”  
“Mmm, all right. Let’s think. Well. There’s your cuddly side, I suppose. Can’t imagine you trying to have a cuddle with, oh say, Lestrade.”  
“Good lord, John. What mental images you conjure.”  
“Mm I do my best. I’m really glad that bit is my bit. I’m quite determined to keep it to myself.”  
“And so you shall, John. What else?”  
“Well, this isn’t just for me, actually. Not exactly. But it’s funny how. Mm ah. It’s funny how I didn’t quite realise before how sweet you are.”  
“Sweet?!”  
“Yes, actually. Sweet. So says the world’s foremost expert in Sherlock Holmes.”  
“The world’s foremost expert in winding up Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Ha, shall I tell you more about that one, lovely?”  
“Fine go on, then. If nothing else will please you.”  
“Well think of it this way, love. You’re extraordinary all over. It wouldn’t do for you to be a run of the mill husband, would it?”  
“Am I an extraordinary husband, John?”  
“Oh yes. Very.”  
“Really?”  
“Of course you are. Too fantastic to know how fantastic you are, I suppose.”  
“And that’s sweet, is it?”  
“No, that’s not exactly what I mean. It’s a bit difficult to put it into words. There’s the composing and there’s the biscuit tin, I suppose for starters. But really, those are only bits of it. It’s more that, er, if I needed something or I wanted something or you thought I ought to have something, there you’d be with it. Straight away, no hesitation. Always.”  
“Well, of course, John. How could I not?”  
“You do know how uncommon that is, don’t you, love?”  
“I suppose so. But you’d do anything for me as well, John.”  
“Yeah, of course! I mean. You make it so easy.”

...

Hullo love,

  
Right. So. I’ve been thinking lots about the chats we’ve been having lately. I never have told you what bits of me are yours only. Well, all of me, you know. I’m all yours. I’m not going to bother banging my head against the distinction between what I can easily say, and what I exactly mean. I do find this sort of thing rather difficult. I’ll try it anyway. I know you understand me, my brilliant Sherlock. But actually, on second thought, ‘all of me’ is not a bad way to put it. I’m not sure you’ve noticed this particular thing about me. It seems to have quite escaped you, actually. You’re blinded by my good looks, I suppose.

Anyway. I’m something of an arsehole. I know I’m stubborn, rather self-important, a bit obtuse at times, and I’ve definitely got a temper. I’m not an easy man, in short. And somehow I fell into the lap of the only person in the world who would think differently. I still can’t believe it, really. Not only do I know such a person as Sherlock Holmes, but I live with him, and he loves me, and he is my husband. Marvellous. Amazing. Incredible. We ought to be sending Mike Stamford more generous Christmas presents. Ha.

Anyway. Even knowing how lucky I am. How unbelievably, criminally lucky I am. Even though I’m bloody delirious with happiness, I’m still sort of an arsehole. Being in love takes the kind of bravery that doesn’t come easily to me. Real openness and tenderness and affection have always cost me so much. It’s too easy to be a sarcastic dick and too hard to risk anything that really matters. And I think you and I well know it’s sometimes far easier to risk your skin than your feelings.

I’m not getting on very well here. I’ve put down this note and picked it up so many times, and it still isn’t coming right. This doesn’t sound much like a love letter yet, does it? I did say I was an arsehole, didn’t I? And I’m not going to use that word again, because I’m sure I’m butting up against the limit of times you can use that word in a love letter and still have it count as a love letter. I’m going to attempt a metaphor. Perhaps that’ll help. Wish me luck.

One of the amazing things about you is that you’ve always believed in me (this bit isn’t the metaphor bit, yet). I know you remember, but I’ll tell it again anyway, the second day we knew each other, we went chasing after Jeff Hope together. Tracking his cab. Anyway, at that point, I was still using the cane and limping quite badly. But when you saw that we needed to go, you just got up and went and called me after you. And I could follow. I even leapt across rooftops that night because I was following you.

Anyway, falling in love with you and being in love with you has been a bit like that for me. Somehow you never noticed how incapable I ought to be, and well. As it turns out, I’m not incapable. As they always are in everything else, your fervour and your energy and your unabashed wholeheartedness have been inspiring, Sherlock. You see your way forward, and you dive after it immediately, whether it’s across a roof after a baddy or. Well. I’m not sure how to say it, exactly. Your faith and your passion and your devotion make me feel so awake and alive and brave and strong. And it’s not that you’ve converted me into a different sort of man entirely. Only you’ve shown me how wholly worthwhile it is to be courageous enough to act always as my genuine self. The way that you do.

Yours,  
John


	367. Chapter 367

John,

This may annoy you, but I shall have to risk it. Though it is often an exercise in frustration on both sides to contradict a person’s self concept, I cannot allow anyone to go about this world thinking you any less than absolutely perfect. Not even you, John.

My John, I do know that it costs you much to be kind, to be brave, to be strong, to be generous. I know that it can seem like defeat when you struggle to be as good as your sense of honour insists that you must be. But I know also that you have spent your adult life in engaged in healing and palliation. I know that you are driven as much to comfort and to mend as you are to court danger and trouble. I know that you have turned your thrill-chasing side into a vehicle for your tenderer urges by becoming an army doctor.

And that even once your health would not permit you to remain in your chosen vocation, you threw yourself immediately into chasing down justice at the first chance you had.  
I know you for real John Watson, and nothing you can say will stop me being astounded at the beautiful way in which your gentleness and your integrity tempers your strength and your courage. Do not tell yourself that you are less worthy because it is not your first or second impulse to be demonstrative. Perhaps you are not an easy man. I would argue that I have hardly ever known a person worth knowing, whom I would describe as easy. You are the bravest, kindest, wisest man I have ever had the privilege of knowing. And though I would hardly call it chief among your virtues, you keep me right. Always. You are my steadiness. You are my heart.

Since the day I met you, however hard I have leaned on you, however unfairly I have heaped difficulties on you, you have never faltered. You have never disappointed me. I know, better than I know anything else in this world, that I can trust you always with anything. I am happy to do whatever I can to bolster you or to please you, but I hardly know how I can improve upon you.

Or perhaps my angle of approach is faulty. Perhaps we draw strength from struggling together because it is heartening to know that every person struggles. And because we teach each other that our flaws, even the ones that trouble us most, are not damning. I learnt that from you, you know. From your forgiveness, from your love and loyalty. And perhaps it was not easy for you to give them to me. Perhaps you struggled mightily with them. But you gave them to me all the same without pomp or agenda.

How could I possibly think you any less than perfect? Perhaps you are conflating perfection with featureless symmetry. Your perfection is in that you will never be held back from what you know to be right. How favoured I feel to be perfectly placed to marvel over you all the rest of my life.  
S

...

“My Sherlock.”  
“My John.”  
“I’m sorry to report that although I may be flawless--which I certainly am--I’ve turned up several of your flaws.”  
“Goodness. And you’re going to enumerate them now, I suppose.”  
“I suppose I am.”  
“For my own good, I would imagine.”  
“Yes, I’m quite generous that way.”  
“Well have at it, by all means.”  
“I intend to. Shut up, first of all. That’s one of your flaws, you know. You’ve not shut up yet.”  
“My apologies.”  
“There, you see? Incorrigible....Mmm, that’s better. That’s what I like to see. A husband who knows how to keep shtum. Let’s see, other of your flaws. You’re starry-eyed and romantic--oop and I can see you wanting to contradict me. That’s another of your flaws, ever contradicting me under any circumstances ever. John Watson is always correct, and don’t you forget it. You may speak, if you plan to concur.”  
“I do concur.”  
“Of course you do. Oh, I think your worst flaw is your mouth.”  
“My mouth, John?”  
“There you go interrupting again. Going to have to punish you for that, you know.”  
“Indeed. For my own good. Generous of you. You were saying.”  
“I was saying shut up because I’m telling you. Right. Your mouth. That little bow in your top lip, just there. And this freckle here on your bottom lip. Criminally irresistible. There now. What have you to say for yourself?”  
“Nothing at all, John. Please go about teaching me the error of my ways as close to immediately as possible.”  
“Yes, I’m going to. Shut up.”  
"Particular attention paid to my mouth, I hope."  
"Oh very particular attention indeed."


	368. Chapter 368

"Sherlock!"  
"John?"  
"You've mutilated it."  
"Don't be so dramatic, John."  
"I'm dramatic?"  
"Yes."  
"Me? Me, John Watson? Dramatic?"  
"I hope you appreciate the irony of this little performance."  
"You’ve ruined my Kit-Kat!"  
"Ruined it?"  
"Yes!"  
"How? It's still good."  
"No, you've bitten it across the top and now the fingers're all uneven."  
"Oh so what?"  
"Just have it. I know you did it on purpose."  
"For god's sake, Captain Drama Queen! Give me the chocolate bar, if you don't want it anymore, and stop complaining."  
"I know you did it on purpose, Sherlock."  
"I fear your imagination is running away from you, John. I was not aware that you have a policy on the appropriate way to consume chocolate bars."  
"Firstly, everybody's got a policy on the appropriate way to eat Kit-Kats because there's only one way. By the finger!"  
"Goodness."  
"And secondly, you're aware of everything."  
"True enough."  
"So you admit it, then? You plead guilty to Intentional Kit-Kat mutilation with malice aforethought?"  
"I believe I'm entitled to the advice of my solicitor before entering a plea one way or the other."  
"That sounds like a confession to me, Sherlock."  
"I'm afraid I really can't discuss that outside the presence of my solicitor."

...

"Shezza?"  
"Hmmm?"  
"Am I hearing things, or did that bloke just call you Shezza?"  
"You are not hearing things."  
"Old friend, I suppose?"  
"Shut up, John."  
"Or do you introduce yourself as Shezza when I'm not around?"  
"Do shut up."  
"Nah, must be an old friend, then. Let me guess. You were at Harrow together? I can just picture the pair of you in matching boaters...Oh and now you're not going to answer? I'll keep guessing then, shall I? Old flame? Not likely, I suppose. Unless you've recently dropped an affinity for really tatty track bottoms and knackered old trainers."  
"Are you through?"  
"Am I getting warmer?"  
"If by 'warmer' you mean 'more annoying,' then yes. Much warmer."  
"We call that flirtatious, don’t we?”  
“You’re flirting yourself down a flight of stairs, John Watson.”  
“Oooh look at you come over all soppy.”  
“Infuriating man.”  
“You adore me.”  
“Mmm, only for your looks.”

...

"You are allowed to say something besides 'erghhhhhhh' when I suggest something to eat, you know."  
"Well stop suggesting things that are horrid. When have you ever seen me eat an aubergine?"  
"You had aubergine risotto for your tea last Friday."  
"When have you ever seen me eat aubergine on pizza?"  
"Well you said you didn't want the sausage."  
"I don't eat meat, John!"  
"You had bacon this morning!"  
"Bacon isn't meat. It's bacon."  
"That's ridiculous!"  
"You're ridiculous."  
"Nice comeback."  
"Indeed."  
"So what are we having for our dinner, then?"  
"I don't care."  
"Obviously you do care, because you don't want to eat the pizza I suggested!"  
"Pasta?"  
"We've had nothing but pasta for three days. Next noodle I see, I'm tipping over your head."  
"Childish."  
"You're childish!"  
"You get so rude when you're hungry."  
"So sort me out, then. What are we eating?"  
"You have the pizza, and I'll have the pasta."  
"Then we're under the minimum for delivery."  
"So go and get it."  
"You go and get it."  
"Ha. Please."  
"Chinese then."  
"Certainly a dearth of noodles there."  
"Right. That's it. We're not ordering in. I'm going to cook and eat you!"  
"That'll take ages."  
"But it'll be so worth it."  
"I've chosen to be flattered by that remark. Thank you, John."  
"You're welcome."


	369. Chapter 369

I Should Probably Just Ignore This

Perhaps I ought to put this down to silliness. It is silliness, but I think it's more than that as well. I was trying to wait out my anger about this, but it isn't budging, and I want to address this now.

Right. So. A few days ago, in a publication that shall remain nameless because I swear to god, this is not about starting a fight. Anyway. A few days ago, I came across a photo of Sherlock walking outside St. Bart's arm in arm with our good friend, Molly Hooper. We've known her for years, and as Sherlock says, she's our dearest friend. So I was all set to go a bit soppy and send the photo to Molly and Sherlock and a couple of our other friends. I had a glance at the caption, though, and I'm still seething over it. It was something like, 'Sherlock Holmes out on the town with his new girlfriend? Will this development put to rest the salacious rumours about his relationship with long-time flatmate, John Watson?'

Let me be as clear as I can, once and for all. Sherlock Holmes is my husband. As in the lawful matrimony sort of husband. There was cake and everything. There is absolutely nothing salacious in that. It's the most conventional thing about us, actually. The fact that we're married. If I ever gave the impression that I consider my marriage some sort of dirty little secret, I apologise directly to my husband.

If you know us personally, you know we're sort of sickeningly proud of each other, really. No, not sickeningly. If you know us personally, you know we’re extremely proud of each other. But most of you don't know us personally, so perhaps it's to be expected that certain aspects of our lives slip past a lot of people. Sherlock and I have been married for a year and a half, now. I'm not sure how obvious that is, since we never formally announced it here or anywhere, and it doesn't come up much in my blog entries. 

We have been quite private about our relationship, because it's in both our natures to be rather reserved about this sort of thing. Apparently our desire for privacy is being taken for shame or ambivalence about our relationship, and that was never my intention. My relationship with Sherlock in general and our marriage in particular, is the best thing I've ever done. I couldn't be more proud of him. Well, I say that now, but he keeps surprising me. 

Comments (37):

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, John. I'm moved. 

 

John Watson:  
My pleasure :) 

 

Molly Hooper:  
Sorry. 

 

John Watson:  
Don't be! It isn't your fault.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It is not your responsibility to amend the stupidity of strangers, Molly. You need not apologise for it; no one is holding it against you. 

 

Mike Stamford:  
You should write to the editor and complain! 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I sent a very polite correction, and they have yet to print a retraction. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
Polite? Really?

 

John Watson:  
As polite as they deserved. No swearing. 

 

Mrs Hudson:  
You should send them the photo from your wedding! Or from your night at the opera for your anniversary! You look so sweet and handsome together in your beautiful clothes, boys. 

 

John Watson:  
Thanks, Mrs H! Are those really the only photos of us where we look properly like a couple? We must do something about that. 

 

Mrs Hudson:  
Would you like me to take some photos of you? I’ll get my camera! 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Perhaps another time. 

 

John Watson:  
Ha. Sherlock’s in his pyjamas. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, John. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
It’s two o’clock!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
What’s one thing got to do with the other?

 

Bill Murray:  
Hang on. You’re angry because some tabloid didn’t know you’re married, even though you’ve never mentioned it?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Your reading comprehension is excellent; that is exactly what he wrote. Well done.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
John’s giving me a look. Apparently that was rude. 

 

John Watson:  
Sorry, that was my ‘I can speak for myself’ look, not my ‘shut up, you tosser’ look. Actually I’ve mentioned it loads in the comments, but I’ve never announced it in a post. They might have worked it out, if they’d done even a tiny bit of research. And I’m angry because some one actually implied that there’s something embarrassing about the idea of Sherlock and I being together. 

 

TMVHP:  
You’re married?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I really don’t know how much clearer we can be. We. Are. Married. Understood?

 

Bill Murray:  
I didn’t mean to offend. 

 

John Watson:  
Of course not! I didn’t take it that way. 

 

Frances M:  
Good for you, John!

John Watson:  
Thanks, Frances! How's Jenny?

Frances M:  
Still perfect!!!

John Watson:  
Of course she is. Thanks for the postcard!

Frances M:  
You're welcome!

Mike Stamford:  
Congratulations, you two! I’ve always wanted to say that, and I don't think I ever have. 

 

John Watson:  
Thanks Mike!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Take care, John. You’re bumping up against your exclamation mark limit for the day. 

 

John Watson:  
You’re one for talking, Montresor. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Always, Fortunato. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
How could anyone see the pair of you going on like that and think, yeah, that’s platonic?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Truly the mind boggles.


	370. Chapter 370

“What are you laughing about, John?”  
“Well. Ha. Nothing really. Actually erm. I was thinking how I’ve just effectively come out on my blog. My blog, of all places!”  
“You announce lots of things there. It’s efficient.”  
“Well, right. But I mean. Not a very long time ago at all it would have seemed completely unthinkable. To just. Announce. That I like men. Ha.”  
“Me and David Tennant.”  
“And Chris Evans.”  
“I don’t know who that is.”  
“He doesn’t work for the Met.”  
“I suspected not. And James.”  
“Yes, James as well. But let’s not make up a list of every bloke I’ve ever fancied, all right?”  
“As you like, John.”  
“You really do get into my brain and tinker around, don’t you?”  
“Erm, do I? Ought I take that as a compliment?”  
“Well, yeah! I mean. You make me feel more. Myself. More the bits of me that are most, er, me. You know?”  
“I do know, yes. Yes, I know just what you mean.”

...

Wow

Well. We really had no idea that people cared so much about our relationship. Or maybe we've just got big heads, and it's about more than just the two of us. That's probably it, now I think about it. Anyway, we had loads of really lovely messages. One hundred and twelve since last night! Wow! It really wasn't our intent to speak to any situation but our own, but of course it's our aim always to provide people with clarity and assistance. That's what we're for. That's why we operate. To help people. So if we’ve helped you, we're very glad for it. Thanks very much for your kind words. 

Comments (31):  
Sherlock Holmes:  
For you not so lovely people, we've added a filter to our inbox so that messages containing references to certain acts will be sent straight to spam. And you will want to re-examine your interest in such things as they apply to the lives of strangers. I'd never thought I'd say this, but it's indecent.

 

John Watson:  
Jesus, Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I'm not the one calling you a sodomite. 

 

John Watson:  
Right. Thanks ever so much. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
Ergh! People say that?! They don’t get taken away by the politeness police?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I was being delicately euphemistic, if you can believe it. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
*comment deleted* 

 

John Watson:  
Oop. Bit salty there, Molly. Sentiment appreciated, though :) 

 

Molly Hooper:  
Whoops.

 

Harry Watson:  
Did you get my email, John?

 

John Watson:   
I did! Thanks so much, Harry, that was really really nice. Sorry I haven’t replied yet. I printed it out, though. Sherlock is still rolling his eyes about that. 

 

Harry Watson:  
:) 

 

John Watson:  
:) 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Use your words. 

 

John Watson:  
Make me. 

 

G Lestrade:  
You’ll let me know if you have any trouble, yeah?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Greg. I doubt it will come to that. 

 

G Lestrade:  
If it does. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you. 

 

TMVHP:  
Sherlock can look after himself. 

 

John Watson:  
And he’s got me. Sorry, do we know you?

 

Mrs Hudson:  
Don’t you read any of those nasty emails, boys! You just delete them straight away!

 

John Watson:  
Yeah, Mrs H, that’s what we have done. 

 

Mrs Hudson:  
Oh good. The cake’s just come out of the oven, sweethearts! Come down for a slice before it goes cold. 

 

John Watson:  
We’ll be right down!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Does anyone else remember when this blog used to be about casework? Or have I just hallucinated that? 

 

Jacob Sowersby:  
I remember! Congratulations on the wedding!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Jacob.

 

John Watson:  
Do you lot enjoy it as much as I do when Sherlock pretends he isn’t sentimental?

 

Molly Hooper:  
I don’t think anybody enjoys anything about Sherlock as much as you do, John. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Hear, hear.


	371. Chapter 371

"Could you come here a minute?"  
"Hmm?"  
"Come here, please?"  
"What for?"  
"Because you're obliging."  
"I'm notoriously not."  
"I've just worked out how to use the photo thing on my laptop, so come and do a photo with me before I forget it."  
"The word you're searching for is 'camera,' John. The photo thing is called a camera. And no."  
"Oh come on."  
"No, thank you."  
"Why not? We've only got two photos of us together. Doesn't that strike you as ridiculous?"  
"What strikes me as ridiculous are any photos of me, ever. I do not look like that."  
"I read this thing once about how because of the difference between the way you pose in photos and the way you pose for yourself in the mirror, if you met yourself, you wouldn't know you because you actually look nothing like that."  
"Ergh."  
"Oh go on then, love. Do a photo with me."  
"No."  
"Sherlock!"  
"No, you look like the handsomest man in the world, and I look like a cross, consumptive alien."  
"You're gorgeous. Come on lovely, please? For me?"  
"Ergh. You could give seminars in wheedling, John. You're an expert."  
"Thank you, love. Mmm, kiss first? ...Mmm."

...

 

"Oh."  
"You see?"  
"No! Well. I mean you are gorgeous, just like I said. But why are you making that face?"  
"Midway through, I forgot how to smile."  
"You're glaring at me."  
"No, I'm not!"  
"You look as if I've just pinched you. Though, you generally get a bit of a grin when I pinch you. Shall we try it like that? Freshly pinched?"  
"Let's just agree that I am constitutionally incapable of making a pleasant face when looking into a camera."  
"Oh of course you are. Right, let's try it again. This time, think of nice things."  
"What sort of nice things?"  
"Oh you know, lovely. Perfect toast with marmalade. Locked room murders. Having a cat go to sleep on your back-"  
"I don't like to be sat on, John."  
"Having me on your back, then...oooh there's a smile. Good. Just think of me on your back. Or your front. I’m not choosy...See look. Ha.That’s a sweet one. You look lovely."  
“You’re biased in my favour.”  
“Well of course I love the way you look. But also there was a summit held, and the consensus was that you look lovely. All the time. Every one in the world agreed. Only the second time that’s ever happened. After the summit where we all agreed that my toast is better than yours.”  
“Why am I never invited to these events?”  
“You are, only you never open your mail, so you don't see the invitations. Shall we do another?...Yes, I know. Four photographs with your husband in the space of a three year relationship is such a hardship, isn’t it? You’re incredibly generous. How did I get to be so lucky?”  
“You and your sarcasm, John.”  
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour... Are you still thinking of having me on your back, Sherlock? Because you’re not making the face you were...haa, that’s better. Oh whoops. Hang on. I’ve hit the video button by mistake.”  
“And now this moment will be recorded for posterity.”  
“Actually.”  
“Mmm?”  
“I’ve just had rather a brilliant idea.”  
“Have you indeed, John?”  
“Terrifically brilliant. Take off your trousers, and tell me I’m a genius.”  
“You’re a genius.”


	372. Chapter 372

“Hands flat on the desk,” John tells me. I’m not sure if it’s his breath or his lips that are tickling my ear, but it’s raising gooseflesh along my neck. I obey. “Good. Perfect.” He kisses my jaw and rubs my shoulder. “You can shut your eyes, if you like, lovely. But don’t look down.” I nod. Swallow. John kisses my jaw again, lingering a moment to nose down my neck, one hand light in my hair (mmm). Then he drops to a crouch and folds himself under the desk. He sits still and silent for a moment, but I can feel him curled up at my feet. Heavy with promise. “Don’t look down, Sherlock.”

“No, John.” I look straight ahead of me into the silver light on the frame of the laptop screen that means that I am being recorded. Trying not to look at my face, but below the light I’m gazing at, I see a little flicker of movement, when I lick my lips (nerves)(or eagerness, rather)(I don’t need to deduce myself)(mostly).  
John shifts forward, bumps my knees further apart, holding them spread with his right hand on my left knee. My expression on the recording is getting distracting, now. Keep grimacing at myself. I shut my eyes, and I can still see the little silver pinprick behind my eyelids. John makes a little sigh (John sighs with anticipation sometimes)(anticipation soon to be satisfied)(I know just how he feels). I’m already finding it difficult not to fidget. Press the heels of my hands into the desk. John knows (somehow)(when does John not know?)(almost never). He squeezes my knee.

“Nice and patient,” his voice is muffled and raspy and sweet. I want to hold it to me and press my face into it. John kisses my knee and nuzzles up the inside of my thigh. I shiver and squirm (there’s a tiny rough spot on his jaw where he missed a spot shaving this morning). John draws a breath through his nose. “My mouth is watering, Sherlock.” John is a magician who can make that half-whispered sentence sound electrically commanding. He presses damp kisses on my inner thigh (mmmm), then licks the seam where my thigh joins with my groin. Gasp. Jolt.

John laughs low (maddening, delicious) and holds me steady with the hand on my knee (parts them further, while he’s at it). “I’m going to be able to see your face later, Sherlock. When I watch this. See just how you look when you do that, my lovely. Are you blushing? I’ll bet you are. Are you blushing, Sherlock?” And he nips my thigh to show me that it’s a real question.

Jolt again and open my eyes to check the recording. “Yes, John.”

“Mmm, and I haven’t even touched your cock yet,” John says. And then he does. Lovely. I shut my eyes again.

His mouth has certainly been watering. Already his lips are wet are wet enough to make soft slicking sounds on me. He sucks lightly on the very tip and rolls the foreskin between his lips, and it’s all wet and warm and just a bit too light, and I want much, much more. Gasp (then bite my lip) and shiver, and I can feel John’s lips curl into a smile against me. He pulls off completely and begins to stroke me with his hand. “You’re certainly blushing now,” he says in his sweet rasp. “I can see it on your chest from here. Fucking gorgeous.” His grip on me loosens, and his stroking slows. There’s a little whisper of fabric, and John shifts and bumps my knee as he adjusts his clothing (to access his own cock, no doubt).

I shift in my seat. “John.” I clear my throat, surprised at the quiver in my voice.

I can hear John’s hand on his cock now. Sounds quite slick. He must have licked his hand, then. Wish I’d seen it (squeeze my eyes shut tighter to imagine it). “Yes?” His voice is rougher now. I make no answer, and John stops stroking me entirely and gives me a good squeeze (shiver). “Yes, lovely? Did you call my name? You wanted me?”

“Yes, John.”

John begins stroking again, lightly. “Sherlock you sound so bloody fucking gorgeous when you say that. Say it again.”

“Yes, John!” I’m trying to rock up into his hand (I need more!) but I’m rather trapped between the chair and the desk, so I’ve got almost no range of motion.

“Beautiful,” John sighs, his hand on me speeding. “What did you need, my lovely?”

“Can I have your mouth, John?” I’m pushing my hands into the desk again. “Please? I need your mouth, John.”

“Mmmm,” John gives me quite a hard squeeze, and I jolt up just as hard in response. “Gorgeous. Such pretty manners, lovely. Of course you can.” And then his mouth is on me again and ohhhfuck I hadn’t realised I was so close (witchcraft). John falls into his rhythm quickly and strokes my thigh with the hand that’d been holding my knee.

I’m wiggling in my chair and sounding high and loud and quavering, and it’s all right because John likes all of that (so ready to be pleased with me, always). John’s mouth is growing warmer and wetter, and I thrust shallowly, trying to follow his upstroke. His answering hum of satisfaction and excitement coils hot through me, and I open my eyes, gasp, thrust, and come.


	373. Chapter 373

“Sherlock.”  
“Mmmmmm.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Mmmmmm.”  
“Sherlock, let me out!”  
“Can’t move. Dead. You’ve deaded me.”  
“Deaded isn’t a word.”  
“I’ve coined it. I’m allowed.”  
“So I’ve got to live the rest of my life under your desk?”  
“Looks that way.”  
“This is the thanks I get for taking such good care of you, is it?”  
“Life’s not fair.”  
“Sherlock! Come on, let me out! I’m getting a cramp in my leg.”  
“Oh, sorry. Here...mind your head.”  
“Ow!”  
“Ooh, that sounded like it hurt. Are you all right?”  
“Ha yeah, fine.”  
“You want a kiss.”  
“Always...mmm.”  
“Mmm and it’s your turn now, isn’t it?”  
“Er, actually I finished while you were recovering yourself just now.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah, sorry. I thought you might be a bit. Sleepy.”  
“Under the desk?”  
“Yeah, under the desk.”  
“What did you do with...it?”  
“Nothing yet. It’s still there.”  
“Oh, John! On the floor?”  
“Well my options were on the floor or on you!”  
“I believe there’s been some precedent set for the latter. You’re not going to leave it there, are you?”  
“Of course not! Go and get me a wet towel.”  
“Me? Why me? Have you got to stay with it to monitor its condition?”  
“Fine, I’ll get it myself!”  
“You’re certainly tetchy for two minutes off an orgasm.”  
“I’m sorry, love. Here. Give us a kiss…mmm.”  
“Better?”  
“Yes, much better.”  
“You’ve got some on your jeans as well, you know.”  
“Yeah, I know. But I think it’s yours.”

...

“I think I’ll have a little sleep on the sofa.”  
“I was going to say the same. Stay with me, and have a little sleep on our bed instead.”  
“Oh all right then. Mmm. Hello.”  
“Hello John.”  
“You’re all cuddly.”  
“Oxytocin. You aren’t going to talk, are you?”  
“Aww, look at you. You know how to make a bloke feel special.”  
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to turn you on your front and use you for a pillow.”  
“That’s your idea of a threat, is it?”  
“Shhhhhhhhhhh.”

...

I wake in a dream. Or it seems like a dream at first. It’s so dark and warm and comfortable, and I’m surrounded by John’s smell. Though of course I’m not in a dream. One doesn’t wake in dreams (well sort of)(sometimes)(but not really). It’s better than that because I’m in my own bed, curled up to John with his arm round my shoulders, and John is murmuring to me in his raspy, pretty, sleepy voice.

“...top of tasting all of you, I’m going to discover every face you can make and every sound you can make, lovely. I’m going to know them all like the back of my hand. ‘Mgoing to know every single bit of you, Sherlock. Every bit of you.” And he makes a little sigh and moves his hand from my shoulder to my scalp. His fingers whisper through my hair so deliciously that I arch back into his hand, drawing a raspy little laugh from him. “Hello lovely. Did I wake you?”

Tip my head up and wait for a kiss before I answer. “I suppose so, but I don’t mind,” I say when he’s gotten me well-kissed.

“Mmm,” John kisses me again and rubs my hair a little more firmly. “Well-rested, I hope?”

“Quite,” I lean back into his hand again and shut my eyes.

“That’s good,” John dips his head to dab a kiss on my chin, then gives it a little nip. “Very good. You’ll need your strength for washing.”

“Washing?”

“Mmhm, my jeans.” John gives my hair the faintest tug, but it’s surprising enough to aid the little squawk of indignation I emit. John giggles. “No getting out of it, Mr Messy.”

“You’re Mr Messy; you’re the one who spilled,” I say, rubbing my head against his fingers. John lets his hand go soft and pliant and giggles harder at my efforts toward friction (can feel his giggles in his chest under me)(lovely).

“One spill doesn’t compare unfavourably enough with your spills to make me the Mr Messy of the house, love.”

“Doctor Messy, then.” John laughs harder and gives my scalp a firm scrub with his fingertips (as a reward, I suppose). I sigh and lean back into his hand. “Anyway, laundry is for blond husbands.”

John tugs my hair a bit harder (mmm)(shiver). “Seems a lot of things have been mainly for blond husbands lately.”

Lean forward to nip at his collarbone and pause for a moment to enjoy the way John squirms against me (mmmm) before I reply, “I offered. I hope you aren’t accusing me of taking advantage, Doctor Messy. It was your idea to go under the desk, in the first place.”

“True lovely, very true. But having had the idea, how could I resist putting it into action straight away?”

“It was an irresistible impulse,” I agree, kissing the spot I’ve just bitten. John presses me a bit closer. I think he’s getting hard. Yes. Yes, he certainly is.

John sighs thoughtfully and pulls my hair again, “Do you suppose you’d fit under the desk?”


	374. Chapter 374

You haven't been to see me in ages.  
~Molly~

 

You haven't been to see me in ages.  
-SH

 

I asked you first.  
~Molly~

 

Childish. And no, you didn't. That wasn't a question.  
-SH

 

Are you afraid of the details of our torrid affair being splashed all over the tabloids again?  
~Molly~

 

Terribly.  
-SH

 

John'll chaperone, if you'd like to drop by this evening.  
-SH

 

Bring your fellow.  
-SH

 

You sound like my grandad.  
~Molly~

 

Has Greg met your grandad?  
-SH

 

Yes, actually.  
~Molly~

 

Goodness. I didn't know it was so serious.  
-SH

 

Now you know.  
~Molly~

 

See you tonight.  
-SH

 

With bells on!  
~Molly~

 

Ergh.  
-SH

...

 

"So Greg," John says as he tops off Greg's wine glass. "What do you reckon? Is it too early yet to be comparing notes on our geniuses?"

Greg grins and takes a hearty swig, "Oh have we only just started?"

"Am I somebody's genius?" I say, shaking my glass at John.

John pours me a bit more as well, with a little shrug and a glance between me and Greg.

"She's pulling your leg," Sherlock announces, setting his own glass on the coffee table and crossing his legs.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” I say.

John gives Sherlock and me a big grin, then turns back to Greg. “Does yours explain your jokes to you?”

“Only sarcastically,” Greg answers, looking delighted. “Does yours talk enthusiastically about the shape of stab wounds in mixed company?”

“When he can tolerate mixed company,” John’s grin is growing. He really likes to talk about Sherlock. “Does yours sometimes investigate you like you’re an interesting corpse?”

Sherlock finishes his wine. “Doctor Hooper, I do believe that bearing witness to this conversation is beneath our dignities. Do you concur?”

“I do, Mr Holmes.”

“I move we refresh ourselves with a walk while these two carry on with their nonsense.” Sherlock rises gravely from his seat and offers me his elbow. I swallow half of what remains of my wine, take his arm and sort of wobble back onto the sofa when I try to push myself up. Greg and John are watching us with matching grins of affectionate anticipation. Sherlock takes my elbow instead, and hoists me up out of my seat.

“Maybe when we get back, they’ll have learnt to be funny instead of only thinking they are,” I say, escorting Sherlock to the the door and holding it for him.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Greg says. Sherlock rather slams the door behind us, but we can hear Greg and John laughing anyway.

“So,” Sherlock says, tightening his hold on my arm when we reach the pavement. “How is every little thing?”

I grin. “What’s this? Chatting? You all right, Sherlock?”

“Oh dear,” Sherlock raises the back of his free hand to my forehead. “Unfunniness is catching, it seems.”

I laugh and swat his arm away. “Every little thing is good, thanks.”

“Greg has been very cheery lately. It’s quite annoying. He whistles at crime scenes,” Sherlock gives a theatrical little shudder, which I know is meant to provoke me into prodding him or something. But I just grin at him. I can’t help it.

“Does he really? What songs does he whistle?”

“I’m sure I do my best to delete it, Molly. Ask John.”

“I will. You do like him, don’t you?” I didn’t quite mean to ask that last bit, though I have been rather wondering about it.

“Of course I do,” Sherlock says, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I’ve always liked him, and I like him more now I know he likes you. Shows a level of good taste that I was not quite certain of before.”

I nod. “Good. That’ll be convenient, then.”

“He suits you,” Sherlock says after a few long moments of silent strolling.

I nod again. “Yeah, he does. We laugh loads. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Sherlock shrugs. “John and I laugh loads as well. But really I don’t know anything about how to manage all this. I’m just a fortunate idiot.”

Ponder that for a bit before I reply, “Everyone’s a bit rubbish at the things that really matter, I think.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, because there isn’t really. You can’t exactly know the really big things, can you? You know for a bit, then it all shuffles about again, and you go back to being a novice.”

“I’d say that eventually you work out how to teach yourself. That’s quite a big thing,” Sherlock says. “Makes the shuffling about easier.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I suppose you’re right.” And I expect Sherlock to answer that he’s always right. But he doesn’t.


	375. Chapter 375

Neither of us had noticed Smoke enter the room, so we were both quite surprised when she leapt up into Greg’s lap with a little chirp of interest.

“Oooh!” he winced at the probably sharp impact but set to stroking her back anyway. “Hullo sweetheart. Who’s this?”

“That’s Smoke,” I said, rescuing his wine glass from her swishing tail and setting it on the coffee table. “She’s so in love with Sherlock that I’m about eighty percent sure she’s got a price on my head. And usually quite shy, so this must be a bit of a treat. Aimed at you, no doubt. I hope you like cross, self-important cats.”

“Is there any other kind?” Smoke turned to put her paws up on Greg’s shoulder and rubbed her face against his ear and jaw. “Though self-important I’m getting a bit more than cross.”

“Yeah, she’s really liking you,” I said, nudging her. “Scoot, you. Greg’s seeing somebody. Anyway, what would Sherlock say?” Smoke (as usual) took no notice of me. She curled herself into a lumpy little cat doughnut on Greg’s lap, purring loudly.

“Oh, she’s sweet,” Greg said, stroking Smoke’s ears. “Neither of Molly’s cats will sit on me.”

“Cats are funny,” I said, passing Greg his wine glass back.

Greg nodded and took a sip. “Er, John. I er. I sort of wanted a chat. With just you, not the other two.”

“Well, now’s your moment,” I said. “On you go.”

Greg sipped again but said nothing for a long moment. “John how did you, er. How did you propose?”

“Oh! Er. Wow, no one’s ever asked me that before,”

“It’s a bit soon, I suppose. I know it’s a bit soon. We’ve only been going out four months, but we’ve been talking about moving in together, and I thought…” he trailed off and began to stroke Smoke’s ears again. “Right.”

“Well, sometimes you just. Sometimes something just makes sense.” I shrugged. “I mean I knew I’d spend my life with Sherlock way before we started going out. If, yknow. If he’d have me. Sometimes things just sort of slot into place. And then, well. Convention seems a bit unimportant. Because it is. You’ve known Molly for years. So er. I guess just do what makes sense.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, John.”

“Sure, glad I could help, if I did.”

“You did, yeah. You really did. Thank you. Though you’ve rather raised my curiosity about your proposal since you nicely sidestepped that one.”

I grinned. “I actually didn’t propose. Sherlock did.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock did? Really?”

“Really really.”

“Now I’m really curious. How did he do it? Not over a corpse, was it?”

“No! It was nice. A really quiet moment. We were sitting just about here, actually. And he told me he’d been thinking about it, and asked if I wanted to. And I did. Ha. Clearly.”  
I reached out to stroke the tip of Smoke’s chin while Greg pondered that. “I’d think he’d be a bit more. Well. Dramatic about it all.”

“Nah. Sherlock’s always. It’s a bit difficult to explain. He’s always Sherlock right the way through. He isn’t affected. He does things the way he thinks they ought to be done, every single time. He doesn’t add in bits for no reason. He just comes at the world differently than most people.”

Greg chuckled, “He does that.”

“Also for him, it wasn’t a question of whether I was agreeing to spend my life with him because we both knew we’d already sorted that out ages ago. It was a question of whether getting married would be a good way to look after each other. And we reckoned it was, so we went ahead with it.”

Greg nodded again and stroked Smoke so firmly that she woke up and started purring. “Well, that’s certainly something to think about.”

We were quiet for a moment. “Have you got a ring?”

“Not yet, no. But I’ve been shopping.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but I was interrupted by the sound of the front door shutting and two sets of bounding feet on the stairs.

Greg grinned, “Speak of the devil,” he said looking to the door of the flat as it opened.

“And the devil, they shall appear,” Sherlock answered from the doorway.

“You’re both the devil?” I said, standing and coming forward to meet him.

“Sherlock! You make a really oblivious door,” Molly said prodding him in the back.

Sherlock stepped through the doorway and turned to address me as if Molly hadn’t spoken, “Stow your backchat, little husband and mind the hello kiss window.”

“I’m the biggest husband you’ve got, and you’re one to talk about backchat.” But I kissed him anyway.

Molly made straight for Greg, her eyes wide and fixed on Smoke. “How did you do this?” she whispered, leaning over his shoulder to run one finger reverently down Smoke’s spine. "She hates me! Never lets me get anywhere near her."

“Eh? Oh, she just jumped up. She likes me, I guess.” Greg looked up at Molly, and she glanced at Sherlock and me, then gave him a little peck on the cheek. Greg set down his wine glass, caught her free hand, and pressed it. Sherlock nudged me hard in the ribs.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed!” I said, nudging back.

Greg laughed and pressed Molly’s hand again. “I love them, don’t you? I wish they had a chat show. I’d watch it every day.”

“It would be very popular,” Molly whispered.

“Well,” Sherlock bent to murmur to me, his mouth against my ear. “She’ll stick to him now, won’t she? Now he’s got her an in with Smoke.”

“Mmm,” I answered, catching eyes with Greg. “Shut up, love.”


	376. Chapter 376

What does it need a title for, John?

The unthinkable has happened. I have rendered myself obsolete. What is the point of having brains, if there is nothing to sharpen them upon? For months and months, all I've seen is the most pathetic villainy perpetrated by such laughable bunglers with motives so transparent that even Scotland Yard is hardly given pause. Clearly I have single-handedly eradicated all meaningful crime in London. John, pack our things. We shall retire to the country directly. My accolades may be forwarded to our country abode, Mycroft.

Comments (27)

John Watson:  
Single-handedly?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
My most abject apologies, John. 

 

John Watson:  
Sharpen your brains on me. The country is too green and too full of cows. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Here's my whetstone. Thank you, John. 

 

John Watson:  
Always. 

 

G Lestrade:  
So I'm a bungler snatcher, am I?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, your progress has been marvellous. You're second among my pupils, Lestrade. Quite a distinction. 

 

G Lestrade:  
You've really got a knack for tying up compliments inside of insults, Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I've got a knack for everything, Lestrade. John will vouch for me. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
Ergh. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
And away goes your imagination, as ever. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
I've got a knack for it.

 

John Watson:  
What about the souffle, Sherlock? You haven't got a knack for souffle. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Shut up, John. That isn't vouching. 

 

TMVHP:  
You know you've been giving that speech for the last fifteen years at least, but I've never seen it delivered with such relish before. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Please stop it. You are embarrassing me. 

 

TMVHP:  
I meant the remark affectionately, Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
So I gather. 

 

John Watson:  
Just who the hell are you, exactly? Sherlock, do you know this person?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, I do. A private word is in order, I think, John. 

 

John Watson:  
Right, you can get the hell off my blog. You've got some nerve leaving these cryptic little comments. Just leave us alone. 

 

G Lestrade:  
Everything all right here, gents?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It's fine, really. Victor doesn't mean any harm. Only his perspective on his past is a little hazy and rose-coloured. 

 

TMVHP:  
I don't mean to intrude. I'm sorry. 

 

John Watson:  
Well you have done. Please go away. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, John. Will you disable the comments, please?

 

John Watson:  
Of course. It's done.

…

"Sherlock Holmes here."  
"It's Vic."  
"I know who it is."  
“I supposed you deduced that I was calling, and that’s why you didn’t pick up the first time.”  
“I prefer to text.”  
“Oh.”  
“Did you need something?”  
“I just wanted to apologise.”  
“You’ve already apologised.”  
“Properly, I mean.”  
“Apology accepted. Good night.”  
“Wait, Sherlock!”  
“What?”  
“It’s. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice. I’ve missed you.”  
“Oh for the love of god, Victor. Yes, quite a long time. Fifteen years. I can’t think what you could possibly want from me now.”  
“To be friends? Or friendly anyway?”  
“Victor, what exactly am I supposed to do with this?”  
“I. You’re right. I’m sorry. This is childish. Excuse me. Will you give my apologies to your husband? I didn’t mean to disturb you, truly.”  
“Honestly this is all so overblown; it really isn’t necessary for you to be sending John messages.”  
“Gosh, Sherlock, I really don’t know what I was thinking.”  
“It’s becoming clear that I won’t be able to convince you to stop cringing, but perhaps you could cringe privately.”  
“Sorry.”  
“So you’ve said. Let’s call it ended, shall we? Think nothing of it.”  
“Right. Nothing.”

…

“Victor Trevor sends you his apologies.”  
“He can keep them.”  
“I knew you’d say that.”  
“And you’re sure it’s him? Just him?”  
“John, I spoke to him. It’s him. Just him.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“I am. If I weren’t, I would say so.”  
“Right of course. Yeah. I mean. I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”  
“Rule one.”  
“Only we don’t exactly have the best track record with people getting overfriendly on the blog.”  
“I know.”  
“It was just a bit. Unsettling. Those little remarks. That familiarity. Like he knows you. I mean clearly he does. Or he did. It just made me think of. Well. You know.”  
“I know. I’m sorry.”  
“I’m not blaming you.”  
“I’m sorry you were unsettled, John.”  
“I still hate thinking about it.”  
“So do I.”  
“God, I hate thinking about it.”  
“So do I.”


	377. Chapter 377

I lean in and kiss John’s chest. “How are you growing new freckles in such places, John?” John’s hand in my hair grows firmer, but he does not reply, so I lick at my discovery lightly to evoke a squirm and a giggle.

“Menace,” he says, giving my hair a tug (mmm).

“Not that I’ve any objection to you taking some sun en dishabille, John. Only I resent terribly that you haven’t seen fit to invite me. I like freckles too, you know.”

John tugs again. “Believe me, lovely. Whenever I’m en dishabille, you’re invited. Obviously you’re putting the new freckles there, and you’re trying to put me on the wrong scent.”

“Nonsense, witch!” Nuzzle down John’s torso to nip at his ribcage, and he squirms harder and gives my hair quite a hard tug (lovely!). “Either you are summoning the freckles sunlessly with your dark arts, or strolling around in the nude without me. Both possibilities earn you a pressing. Prepare yourself.” In reply, John pulls me up toward him and kisses me. Mmm. Lovely. “Mmm,”I say when John lifts his mouth from mine. “I have other evidence against you as well, John.”

John licks his bottom lip (tasting me)(mmmm), “Do you now?” he says. “Do tell.”

“You’ve been baking in the nude. Or at least topless. There now. What have you to say about that?”

“That was once! And you were out! How could you possibly know about that?” John gives me a little pinch, and I jump because we like that.

“You really don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“I don’t see how you couldn’t.”

“Let’s have it then,” John says, giving me another little pinch. “Illuminate.”

“You’ve burnt yourself, of course. Just here.” I stroke the mark in question, high on his belly, below his chest. “Red mark, clean edges, about three centimeters long and the same shape as the lip of our baking sheet. I would imagine that you started to drop it and reflexively braced a corner of it against yourself to secure it. Then likely dropped it anyway, when it burnt you. Tut tut, John. This is why cooking in the nude is such an inadvisable practise. You’d never catch me experimenting in the nude.”

John smirks. “Not with heat and chemicals, anyway.”

“Mmmm,” I kiss him. “Indeed. Not that sort of experiment. Forgive me for disclaiming any others.”

“Forgiven, my lovely love. Only don’t let it happen again.”

“Never.” I settle back down to tuck my head against John’s chest, and he resumes stroking my hair.

“I didn’t know you could read scars like that,” he says after a bit. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You can see everything.”

“I only teach myself to interpret the things that nearly anyone can see,” I correct him.

“And you can read the others, I suppose.”

“Some of them,” I say. “In generalities. I could tell you minute things about yourself that are really of little significance. For the most part.You briefly had your right ear pierced in your teenage years; you’ve told me that yourself already. And obviously, the age, shape, and location of the scar is telling. You had stitches over your right eyebrow within the last year or so. Mending an injury caused by being struck in the face with something blunt and heavy. Again obvious from the shape. Of course I know all about that, since I was there. Mmm, let’s see. What else? You fell down an escalator when you were about twenty.”

“And here’s me just telling myself that I wasn’t going to be surprised anymore. How’d you know about the escalator?”

I reach down to stroke his leg, just below the knee. “You took a considerable amount of skin off your knee, going from the shape of this scar here, and the indistinctness of it. A scrape, not a cut. Could be nearly any sort of injury sustained in any way. However just beneath it, another scar of the same age that is quite a nice, neat, horizontal cut with nearly clean edges. The distance between the two scars suggests scraping the knee on one stair and cutting the leg on the edge of the other. The cleanness of the cut suggests a very sharp stair. Probably the metal edge of an escalator.”

“Brilliant,” John murmurs, kissing my hair. Though I keep my eyes fixed in front of me (watching the rise and fall of John’s belly as he breathes), I feel his left arm shift, and I know that he’s stroking the scar on his shoulder that sits a hand’s breadth above his heart. As usual a little thrill of horror runs through me at the notion.“I thought you’d probably ask about this one,” he says after a long moment. “When you saw it.” He pauses to allow a remark, but I remain silent. “People do. Did. Of course you knew what happened. I did tell you. A bit of it.” I nod. I don’t want to break in on his thoughts, but it seems churlish to make no response at all. “I used to think of tattooing over it. A sort of do not disturb notice. This bit of John Watson not open for discussion. People do.” I nod again. Stroke his chest. He sighs and covers my hand with his. “But,” John drops his voice nearly to a whisper. “It isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me anymore. And,” he continues hesitantly, “It’s a bit like a portal, isn’t it? Even looks a bit like one. When I look at it, if I think of it at all, I think. The worst, the ugliest things that have happened to me. The most hellish. Those things have dumped me from one bit of my life into the next. Right, there have been bits of hell. But. My life keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

Exhale when he falls silent, rather surprised that I’ve been holding my breath. “I think I see what you mean, John”

John kisses my hair again. “Yeah, of course. You always do.”


	378. Chapter 378

“What do you want?”  
“Your greetings are getting less and less polite, aren’t they?”  
“Question stands, Mycroft.”  
“Just checking in, as is my wont.”  
“Not necessary.”  
“I would disagree. I consider your wellbeing to fall under the umbrella of my responsibilities.”  
“What would you know about my wellbeing?”  
“You’re very cross today.”  
“I’m cross because my interfering older brother won’t let my business alone, and insists on sticking his truly excessive nose in where it isn’t wanted. Anyway, I’m not cross. I’m only bored of this conversation.”  
“Ah, well I won’t keep you. Oh and by the by, Sherlock, I looked into the recent-”  
“You think I’ve really let that alone this whole time after what happened before? I’m not a complete fool, Mycroft. He is who he says he is.”  
“Yes, I know. Though that’s not quite as harmless as you seem to think. If I recall correctly, he rather stirs your tendency to be, ah, swept along by romantic notions.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous!”  
“Sherlock, I was, to borrow a turn of phrase, being politely euphemistic. Don’t you recall the details of your little intimacy with Victor Trevor?”  
“Honestly Mycroft, you accuse me of romantic notions. Yes, I recall the details of my brief acquaintanceship with Victor Trevor. Rather better than you do, I suspect, since you were privy to very few of them.”  
“Mostly the end bit, I admit, but I’ll call it enough. I did what I could for you, but some aspects of the situation were rather beyond my reach.”  
“And none of those aspects apply now, Mycroft. The circumstances are entirely different. I seem to have been overgenerous in assuming you had a point apart from knife twisting.”  
“And there’s the romance you disclaimed less than one minute ago. I am coming to a point, actually.”  
“Well you had better come to it quicker. Your time is expiring.”  
“Oh stop fussing; it’s so childish. You can spare your elder brother ten minutes every three months. To be distastefully overt, I thought perhaps this recent brush with your past might put you on your guard. After all you thought he was different, too. A man may be a very vivacious and fascinating man without having quite the superhuman level of earnestness and devotion which you seem to require.”  
“John isn’t Victor, Mycroft!”  
“Of course he isn’t Victor. But that doesn’t mean that you ought to hang so much around his neck, Sherlock.”  
“You appal me. Good night.”

...

I don’t even actually put the phone down, only chuck it across the room at the fireplace, where it hits the brickwork and breaks into three pieces. Am nearly shaking with anger and when I catch up my violin, I can’t even think what to play. I’m scraping furiously when John bangs in half an hour later with his keys held in his left hand and his right hand clapped over his ear.

“Hey!” he calls over the noise. “Want to give that a rest? I could hear you down in the street.”

Drop my violin in my chair and open my mouth to make a short tempered reply, but I can’t quite come out with it. Instead cross the room in a stride and a half, pull John onto the sofa, and bury my face against his neck. My eyes start to prick at once, and I blink hard, loathe to lose any more of my dignity.

“Hey,” John says, dropping his keys onto the floor so that he can wrap both arms around me. “All right, love? What’s happened?” John shifts one hand to my hair, and my eyes spill over.

Nose along John’s neck to bolster myself enough to reply (he smells delightful, though it doesn’t much make me feel less teary). “Nothing, nothing,” my voice is rough, so I force a chuckle. “It’s nothing, really. My brother is infuriating me. Excuse me.” I start to draw back, but John doesn’t let go of me.

“Please tell me what’s wrong, Sherlock,” he says softly, stroking my back.

“Well.” I draw a deep breath (John smells so delicious). “Mycroft thought it was essential to ring me up and remind me that our relationship--yours and mine he meant not mine and his--could be a fabrication--or delusion is probably a better word--borne of my compulsion to flatter myself and my inability to understand when I’m making people hate me and that you could pick up and disappear from my life with me literally having suspected nothing amiss.”

That little mess sits between us like cooling vomit for a moment before John speaks, “You know that’s absolute shit, don’t you?” There’s a note of hurt in his voice that mortifies me further.

I nod fervently, “I know.”

“Absolute,” he tightens his arms around me, “fucking shit.”

“I know, yes. I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, Sherlock.” John strokes my hair. “No, I’m not angry with you. I just. No. We won’t even entertain that. You know and I know the truth, yeah?”

“Yes, John.” I do know. I really do. John’s got more strength of character than Mycroft can even imagine (and he loves me)(adores me to an inexplicable degree). And I am not the naive and desperately lonely man I was when I knew Victor (past tense, definitely) (he’s nothing to do with me anymore) (not going to let him intrude on me). “Yes, John, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

John shakes his head and squeezes me. “No, love, you haven’t. I’m a bit angry because you’ve got such a rubbish older brother. I’m not upset with you.” He kisses my hair, and I make a little sigh. John sighs as well. “It’s sort of impossible to put into words, isn’t it?”

“Mmm?”

“I know I haven’t got to. Convince you. I know you know. But it feels like the moment to say it, and I. I’m all tongue-tied. I’m always tongue-tied, though. There aren’t words for it. There aren’t.”

There aren’t. It’s too massive. Too intrinsic. I am. I breathe. I love you. Nod against John’s shoulder. “Likewise stymied, John. Matched set.”


	379. Chapter 379

“Was that an especially nice one?”

It took Sherlock a beat to respond. He was half asleep already. Not especially surprising, really. “Mmm?”

“Felt a bit. Different from usual on my end.” Sherlock sort of half-shrugged, then nodded. I spat out the resulting mouthful of his hair, and he huffed irritably.

“Ergh, John. That’s wet,” he said, giving me a retaliatory dig in the ribs with his chin.

“Your hair went into my mouth.” Sherlock shrugged again and tipped his head up a bit so that his hair fell across my mouth.

I lifted my chin and took a handful of his hair to give it a little tug, “Brat.” Sherlock shivered and chuckled his low, wicked laugh.

He kissed my chest, “Yes, it was a very nice one. Thank you. Well done.”

I laughed and rubbed his hair. “Felt like it.”

Sherlock shut his eyes when I began to rub his hair. “Oh yes, John. Please do that for the remainder of my natural existence. God, you’ve got exquisite hands. Mmm. Can you tell?”

“About my hands?”

“No, the other thing,” he waved a hand. “Orgasms.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, a bit. When it’s going to be a really big one, you sort of seize up and hold your breath until just when you come. And,” Sherlock adjusted his position, pressing a little sigh out of me. “You had your legs over my shoulders, so I could feel your thighs trembling.”

Sherlock pushed his head up against my hand so that I’d rub harder. “Go on.”

“Mmm, then you went so shivery and sensitive after you’d come that I thought I was going to have to pull out.”

Sherlock stroked my chest, “I like for you to come inside me.”

“I know what you like, lovely.” I gave his hair another little tug, and he shivered.

Sherlock laughed, “Oh yes. I know you do, John.” He felt for my free hand and raised it to kiss it. “That’s very interesting.”

“Ah, well. That’s one word for it.” Sherlock laughed again. “I might also call it fucking gorgeous or incredibly hot. Both, actually. Definitely both.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock kissed my hand again, “I meant that it’s interesting to hear your deductions about my sexual response.”

“I’m sure you’ve got yours about me.”

“Oh indeed. Only I think I may need to vary my data intake a bit more than at present.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. You really know how to flatter a bloke.”

Sherlock kissed my chest. “Flattering you is an insult to your dignity, my John.” He toyed quietly with my fingers for a few minutes, occasionally pausing to lean back into my hand on his hair. “A change in perspective can be invaluable,” Sherlock murmured after a bit. He looked up at me and raised his eyebrows.

“Er yeah. Invaluable.”

Sherlock nodded, then kissed me again and settled himself on my chest. “Mmm good. We’ll soon look into it further, I think. But I’m falling asleep now, John. Good night.”

“Good night, Sherlock. Sweet dreams.”

“Yes, likewise. Now hush and pet my hair.”

...

 

John,  
I have never doubted you, and nothing could induce me to.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I know. Me too. I know you for real. One hundred percent.  
Yours,  
John


	380. Chapter 380

“Oh there you are.”  
“Here I am.”  
“Where’d you get to, love?”  
“Slight disagreement with the butcher about the propriety of recalibrating the scales on the meat counter.”  
“Er yeah, I’d think they wouldn’t like that.”  
“They were faulty. I was trying to help.”  
“Nobody appreciates you like you deserve, love.”  
“I’ve got you.”  
“Ha, yes. So you do. Very true. Well, nearly finished. Where’s the trolley?”  
“You’ve got it.”  
“Right, I’ve got it folded up in my pocket, and I’m asking you about it for a laugh.”  
“Well, I haven’t got it!”  
“Where’ve you left it?”  
“You left it!”  
“Sherlock! That was all the shopping!”  
“You’re the one who lost the trolley!”  
“Ergh, fine. Let’s not argue. We’ll just. Do it over. Have you got the list?”  
“You’ve got it.”

...

"What was that?"  
"Hmm?"  
"You've just said, 'standard deviation'."  
"No, I haven't."  
"Yes, you have; I heard you."  
"All right, then, supposing I have. What's your point?"  
"What are you doing?"  
"Nothing."  
"Are you experimenting on me?"  
"You know better than to ask, John."  
"You are! I saw a spreadsheet before you shut your laptop!"  
"I. It's nothing to do with you."  
"Then what's it to do with? Hmm?"  
"Science."  
"Science?"  
"Yes."  
"What sort of science?"  
"Private science."  
"That sounds like you're experimenting on me."  
"Not experimenting. Observi-hey! John, don't look!"  
" 'Date, time, initiated by, duration of preamble, duration of active pene-' Sherlock!"  
"I told you not to look."  
"Preamble?!"  
"That's what it's called."  
"Foreplay!"  
"Oh. It comes to the same, doesn't it?"  
"It really doesn't."  
"You and your semantics."  
"Why are you doing this?"  
"I don't understand the question."  
"Ha, 'course not. It's meant to be fun, you know."  
"Yes, this is fun. Spreadsheets are fun. I can keep it all in my head without this. Only I like typing it up and going over it later. I'm a scientist, John."  
"You maniac."  
"You adore me."  
"Ha, yeah. Have you got the time?"  
"Errr... eight thirty-six, exactly."  
"All right. 'Date zero six zero eight, time twenty thirty-six, initiated by John Watson. Duration of preamble...?'"  
"Foreplay."  
"Semantics."

...

“God.”  
“Mmm.”  
“I mean. God!”  
“My feelings exactly.”  
“You look really bloody smug, you know.”  
“My John, how can I help but be pleased with myself when you’re so pleased with me?”  
“Well I am pretty fucking pleased with you.”  
“Yes, I know. I heard you the first sixteen or seventeen times you told me.”  
“Haaa shut up.”  
“Oh you’re one to talk.”  
“I suppose I’ve set a really horrible precedent, eh?”  
“Ah well, spreadsheets always have that effect on me.”  
“You are joking, right?”  
“Obviously. Even I don’t love data that much, John.”  
“You did say spreadsheets are fun.”  
“Not this sort of fun. Classification is soothing.”  
“I sort of get what you mean, actually.”  
“Well yes, John. Obviously.”


	381. Chapter 381

Sherlock swans into the lab and makes right for the coffee maker, with just a little nod to me to allow I'm not a bit of lab equipment, I suppose. "Where's my mug?" he fiddles with the buttons on the coffee maker. He bought it, and he still doesn't know how to use it. When I don't answer about the mug, he looks up at me and gives me one of those deduction looks. "You are perturbed, Molly," he says with an irritating little crook to his mouth. I fold my arms. "Am I to discover the provenance of your disgruntlement via divination?"

He mostly talks like that when he's nervous, but it doesn't make me feel sorry for him. "You might just ask!"

Sherlock frowns at me, the beginning of a smirk dropping off his face, "Here's me asking. Why are you shouting at me?"

I glare at him for a moment, but he doesn't fill it in. "You've got another stalker! This is how it started, isn't it? Last time. When we. Are you going to let us in on this one, or wait until the very last minute when you're in over your head again?" His face clouds, and my stomach sort of drops like I've just lurched up a floor in a fast lift.

Sherlock licks his lips, "Sorry?"

"Stop pretending to be stupid! We are past this! It's so rotten of you to hoard your problems, when you've got friends who can help you! We're not useless!"

Sherlock drops his chin and shakes his head. "No, of course not."

"You can just ask! You should ask! Greg and I can help you!"

He shakes his head again. "You misunderstand, Molly."

"So tell me what's happened. Who is that guy?" I cross the room and lean against the bench next to him, my arms still folded.

"He's nobody. Just. He's a former acquaintance." I glare at him, so he continues. "It really isn't anything. Hardly anything."

"What does that mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks up into my face for a moment, then drops his eyes again. "Fine," he says. "His name is Victor Trevor. We were friends at university; he was my only friend, in fact. And my first client. He was and his father. His father was being blackmailed, and I offered a very little illumination." He sighs and shuts his eyes. "It didn't do them much good in the end. His father died of a heart attack, and he disappeared. I suspected foul play at the hands of the blackmailer, And. I appealed to my brother for help finding him, without conducting any preliminary investigation at all. Which was. Stupid for many many reasons. Of course Mycroft found him inside of an hour. No foul play, he just. He wanted." Sherlock opens his eyes and blinks rapidly. "I don't know what he wanted. He didn't contact me again until a few months ago when he started leaving stupid remarks on John's blog. It's all very embarrassing, and now you're looking at me like. Stop looking at me like that, Molly."

I drop my hand from my mouth, where it had crept up while I wasn't looking. "Can I give you a hug?"

Sherlock drops his arms to his sides and sort of squares his shoulders, "If you must."

"Well, I won't if you won't like it."

His mouth twitches. "No, it's. Fine." So I do. He pats me on the shoulder and sighs again.

"Sorry I shouted at you."

"I was being thoughtless," he says.

We draw back from each other at the same time. "Anything you need," I say. "That goes for Greg and me, both." Sherlock nods. He's still a bit blinky. "He's cross with you as well, by the way."

Sherlock nods again. "I will apologise." He turns back to the coffeemaker for a moment, then looks at me. “I’m sorry I’m rubbish at this. It’s nothing to do with you.”

I hug him again. “You’re not rubbish. That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know it isn’t what you meant, but it’s still true.”

I frown at him, “No, I should have just asked you what was going on without the shouting. You’re not always the rudest person in the room, you know.”

Sherlock nods once and turns his attention back to the coffeemaker. “Where’s my mug?”


	382. Chapter 382

Sherlock’d been rather in high dudgeon all day. Eventually, he stalked off to a shower, which I was happy to leave him to on his own. His mood at least certainly wanted refreshment and I wasn’t sorry for a few minutes to myself. My mood wanted a little refreshment as well. I sat in my favourite corner of the sofa with the day’s paper, quickly becoming absorbed in reading.

I didn’t register the end of Sherlock’s shower, so it rather surprised me when he plopped onto the sofa next to me, wrapped in his dressing gown and still dripping from his hair, and pushed his head under the paper onto my lap.

“Sherlock, you’re getting water everywhere.” He harrumphed and withdrew at once, curling himself onto the other end of the sofa and exuding damp sulkiness. “I’m reading! I’ll be with you in a bit. When I’m through.” He only harrumphed again. I carried on reading in relative peace, until Sherlock lurched suddenly forward to kick the paper out of my hands (tearing it almost in half in the process) and dropped his feet heavily into my lap. “Sherlock!”

“I can tell you what happens,” he said silkily, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “Politicians were outrageously untrustworthy, money was gained and lost, the weather was not quite to everyone’s liking, far too many grown men played some sport or other, and boring people committed boring crimes. There now. You should pet me.” He tapped his feet together hopefully, but I shoved them out of my lap.

“You’ve ruined my newspaper! I was reading that!”  
Sherlock replaced his feet in my lap as if nothing had happened. “Pet me.” I shoved him away again, and he put his feet back on my lap. “Pet me, John.” Then with a little bounce of his eyebrow, he dropped his voice, “That’s an order, Captain.” An order. Well.  
I grasped his ankle, not tight enough for him to suspect anything, but I knew he wouldn’t get away from me. Then I ran the tip of my middle finger lightly and briskly along the sole of his foot. He squirmed and squeaked. “John!”

“Is that not to your liking? Perhaps you should have been more specific. Sir.” I tugged him forward a bit and reached under his dressing gown to whisper my fingertips quickly over the backs of each knee.

Sherlock jolted and squirmed harder, trying to pull his ankle out of my grip. “Stop it, John! That isn’t petting!”

“No?” I undid the sash on his dressing gown and pushed it off. Sherlock looked up at me with narrowed eyes. I grinned and tightened my grip on his ankle.

“That’s not as effective as you think it is, John.”

“Which bit?” Before he could answer, I dug the fingertips of both hands into his ribs on either side, and he yelped and squirmed and tried to curl in on himself.

“You’re a brute, John Watson,” he said when I released him, leaning up to kiss me. And it might have ended there, if he hadn’t used his proximity to try for retaliation.

I don’t know why Sherlock forgets I’m not ticklish. Perhaps he didn’t forget, and he was only hoping for what followed. Sherlock sort of jolted us off the sofa onto the floor, and for the next ten seconds or so, I was merciless.

“John! Please! For the love of...please! Ahhh! Christ, John! Just. Stop! Stop! Please! I give up, John! Stop!” And then we were both lost to hoarse and helpless giggles.

When I could breathe properly again, I pushed myself off him. I cleared my throat and paused for a moment before I spoke to enjoy his flushed cheeks and mouth, his bright eyes, his mussed hair, and the pretty red friction marks on his torso. Sherlock says I like him looking debauched. I suppose I do. “You seem to be feeling better.”

Sherlock sat up as best he could with me still half on top of him and kissed me. Then he answered in a voice still rough from laughing, “Can we drop the pretense now, John? Are you going to fuck me now?”

Definitely. “Hmm, I don’t know. Is that an order?”


	383. Chapter 383

"Oh. Sherlock. Hullo. Good to see you, mate."  
"Greg."  
"I was just. Erm. Doing a bit of shopping."  
"Clearly."  
"It's er. My sister's birth-"  
"Oh, let us have no attempt at pretense, Greg. You know I'm not simpleton enough to believe such a transparent lie delivered with such tremulousness."  
"Right. Look, I know she's your best-"  
"Your secret is safe with me, Greg, I'm not as incorrigible a spoilsport as all that."  
"Oh. Thanks, Sherlock."  
"Don't mention it. In fact, if you don't mind me suggesting it, I may be able to be of some assistance."  
"Really?"  
"Certainly. I can introduce you to my jeweller. This one's rubbish...what? Why are you laughing at me?"  
"No, I'm not laughing. Well all right. It is a bit funny. Of course you've got a jeweller."  
"I've had occasion to commission little mementos and keepsakes from time to time. I'm married myself, you know."  
"Well, so was I, but I haven't got a jeweller."  
"Ah well. Differences in taste and situation."  
"Right, er. I’m not exactly skint, but while we're on the subject of differences in si-"  
"That shouldn't be a problem-"  
"Could you let me finish a sentence, please? I'm not saying every sentence, but one in three would do me."  
"Excuse me."  
"Right, you were saying?"  
"Ms Beckman is an old family friend and former client. Our, ah, perceived differences in situation shouldn't be a problem."  
"Well that's very generous."  
"It's what a good jeweller does, Greg. Accommodates one's situation."  
"Ha, and you say perceived differences. Anyway you’re the one who used the expression in the first place."  
"But I didn’t mean it how you mean it. Her shop is just this way, if you're interested."  
"Sure, why not. Can't hurt to look, eh?"  
"Indeed."

...

I was expecting him to bring me somewhere really posh, but Sherlock lead me up to a modest little shop about five minutes' walk from where we started and held the door for me as we went in. There was only one assistant, who turned out to be the owner. A tall elderly woman with white dreadlocks and rimless spectacles.

"Ah, Mr Holmes," she said coming out from behind the counter as we entered. "Lovely to see you again." She kissed Sherlock's cheek, then glanced from him to me a couple of times and said delicately but meaningly, "How is your family?"

Sherlock beamed the way he does whenever some one asks him to go on about John, "Good afternoon, Ms Beckman. John is in excellent health and spirits, thank you very much for asking. The tie pin was perfect, by the way. Thank you for talking me out of the emerald; it wouldn't have done with his dinner jacket at all."

"Oh, I'd never presume to talk you out of anything, Mr Holmes. I'd be better served trying to dissuade the sun from shining."  
Sherlock lowered his chin deferentially and clapped my shoulder, bringing me forward a bit. "Ms Beckman, this is my dear friend and esteemed colleague, Mr Greg Lestrade."

Ms Beckman smiled at me and held out a hand, "A pleasure to meet you Mr Lestrade."

"Likewise," I said, shaking hands and nodding. I nearly asked her to call me Greg, but I didn't want to be the only first name in the room among all the Ms Beckmans and Mr Holmses.

"We were hoping you might be able to assist Mr Lestrade with something in particular," Sherlock prompted.

"I hope that I can," Ms Beckman answered with her eyes on me.

"Well I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck, Greg," Sherlock said, clapping me on the back once and turning for the door.

"Oh Sherlock, I'd be really grateful for your advice, if you have the time."

Sherlock turned back with a funny sort of smile, "Aren't you tired of my advice, detective?"

"Mr Holmes, you are too modest," said Ms Beckman with a knowing crook of her eyebrow. "Isn't he, Mr Lestrade?"

"Er," Sherlock was suppressing a smile. "He has his moments. But do stay, Sherlock. If you can spare a few minutes."

"Well," Sherlock cocked his head in showy consideration. "If you think I can be of use, of course, I would be glad to offer my opinion, though between the two of you, you've worlds more experience on the matter than I have. Just excuse me a moment while I let John know I'll be later than he was expecting." Sherlock slipped out, his hand already in his pocket for his phone, leaving me and Ms Beckman alone together.

"How can I help you today, Mr Lestrade?" she asked, stepping back behind the counter.

"I'm looking for an engagement ring," I said.

"Oh how wonderful!," said Ms Beckman, clasping her hands together under her chin. "I love weddings. Why don't you tell me a bit about your intended?" Sherlock re-entered and approached the counter before I could reply, and I cut a glance at him without really meaning to. I'd never seen him look less likely to break in, though. He stood serenely in parade rest, with a polite smile that wasn’t quite the one he fixes on a witness he’s trying to shake a statement out of.

"Well she's brilliant, of course. Sort of dry and quiet, but really really quick and funny and sharper than this one even, in some ways," I indicated Sherlock with my elbow, and he smiled indulgently. "And kind and really really clever. A genius, really. And pretty. She's got really, erm. Lovely eyes. And dimples."

Ms Beckman nodded seriously through my speech, "She sounds a lovely woman, Mr Lestrade."

"She is that," I said, with another little glance at Sherlock.

"And do you have anything in particular in mind? Any style?" Ms Beckman took a little pad and pen from her breast pocket and held her pen poised above the open pad.

"Something modest? Not er, too flashy. But interesting to look at."

Ms Beckman nodded and scribbled. "Something art deco perhaps, On the understated side." ****They looked at me. "Sounds good," I said. Ms Beckman turned to a cabinet behind her, withdrew a ring of keys from her hip pocket and unlocked it. She pulled three trays of rings from the cabinet one by one and set them on the counter in front of her. I stepped closer to the counter and felt Sherlock lean in to peer over my shoulder with a quiet murmur of appreciation.

"Something low profile," I said to myself, "so that it doesn't catch on the gloves."

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed behind me. "And perhaps a matching chain to wear it round her neck when she examines her subjects. Wouldn't do to lose it in a corpse."

"Good lord, Sherlock," I said. "Can we do this without any corpse talk?"

Ms Beckman smiled, "Is your intended a detective as well, Mr Lestrade?"

"A pathologist," I said. "That's how we met. I'm a detective inspector with the Met. I work Homicide and Serious Crime."

"I introduced you," Sherlock corrected.

"You stood round looking superior," I checked myself. Sherlock’s really good at getting me to argue with him, even when he’s being all patrician and charming.

"Nonetheless, I count you among my victories," Sherlock said.

"Well, that's flattering, but I'm not a victory yet."

"I expect you will be. What about that one?" Sherlock pointed at a ring, and Ms Beckman lifted it from the tray and held it up.

"Ah, then you're a detective, and your intended is a doctor. Just like Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson," she said, her smile broadening. "Your forebears are a good omen." Sherlock clapped me on the back, and I didn't look, but I knew he was grinning.

I took the ring Ms Beckman held out and looked at it. "If it was down to my forebears, I'd consider it a sure thing," I said.

"Thank you, Greg," Sherlock said quietly. "That's very kind. I hope you and Molly will be very happy together.

I nodded and held the ring out as if proposing. "I don't think this one's right," I said, glancing up at Sherlock again. He didn't answer, only nodded at the tray. I set it down and looked down at the tray. "Maybe that one?" Ms Beckman fished the ring out of the tray and handed it to me, and I began to nod at once.

“Ah, one of my favourites, Mr Lestrade,” Ms Beckman said, nodding as well. “The stone is slightly smaller than what one usually sees on modern engagement rings, about point one nine carats. But it’s very beautifully cut and the colour is excellent, F. It’s extremely eye-catching in natural light. Lots of fire.”

“I sort of don’t want to even look at any others, actually.” I glanced apologetically at the counter.

“It goes that way sometimes,” Ms Beckman nodded sagely and began to put away the other trays.

“I’m sure Molly would applaud your refusal to dither,” Sherlock clapped me on the back again.

“Right, well. If nothing else.”

“It’ll look lovely on her, Greg,” he looked almost soppy and it made me go a bit soppy as well.

I cleared my throat, “Well. Thanks, Sherlock. That erm. Right.”

Sherlock bounced an eyebrow and redirected his eyes to Ms Beckman. “We said something about a chain, I think?” And he sidled back from the counter. I took the hint and turned toward Ms Beckman.

She helped me choose a nice gold chain, and soon the lot was paid for and sitting in a velvet box in my breast pocket, and I was standing on the kerb shaking hands with Sherlock.

“Let me know if you want any recommendations on champagne. " he said briskly. "Though I would strongly advise against ruining a glass by putting the ring into it.”

“What sort of idiot would do that? That’s only in films, isn’t it?”

Sherlock smiled. “Indeed. Are you going to do it soon?”

“I think so. I almost know what to say. Though I feel quite nervous thinking about actually doing it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Well. Once you’ve settled on the notion, it rather burns a hole in your pocket. In my experience.”

Once Sherlock’s done a thing, he forgets he wasn’t the first in the world. Molly would call it sweet. Sweet and bloody annoying in turns, really. “It is now, to be honest.” I patted the box.

“Good,” Sherlock nodded with satisfaction. “Well. If there’s anything else, you know where to find me.” He turned toward the street to hail a cab, and I turned to head back to my car, then hesitated.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock looked round without replying. “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“Obviously, I would never, ever presume to speak for her.”

“No, of course not. Only I was wondering." I shrugged. "If you had to deduce it.”

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t send you on a wild-goose chase, Greg,” he said. “Have I ever let you blunder off down the wrong course before?”

I grinned. “No,” I said. “No, you haven’t.”


	384. Chapter 384

There is a journalist called Harry Manders whom you will want to arrest.  
-SH 

 

He keeps writing stories about burglaries in which he participated, and it’s annoying me.  
-SH 

Most recently the disappearance of an extremely rare and valuable diamond.  
-SH

 

People think I won’t notice these things. Me!  
-SH 

 

Plus he uses too many adverbs.  
-SH 

 

Thanks for the tip.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

You’re welcome.  
-SH 

 

Anything yet?  
-SH 

 

Give us a moment! You’ve only just told me about him two minutes ago!  
-DI Lestrade-

 

No, not that.  
-SH 

 

The other thing.  
-SH 

 

Oh right.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Haven’t asked yet.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Don’t be nervous.  
-SH 

 

I’m biding my time. Got to choose a good moment, haven’t I?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

How theatrical.  
-SH 

 

Right, I’ll just leave that one alone.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Theatrics.  
-SH 

 

Well I can’t just blurt it out over the washing up, can I?  
-DI Lestrade-

 

If I recall correctly, I was watching John pair socks.  
-SH 

 

That’s quite sweet, actually.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

I assure you, I was not fishing for compliments.  
-SH 

 

Nice of you to call that a compliment.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

I meant to orchestrate something a bit more personal. Only after I decided to do it, I could scarcely hold it in.  
-SH 

 

Seemed completely obvious and natural and imperative.  
-SH 

 

I know what you mean.  
-DI Lestrade-

 

Good.  
-SH 

...

"Oh don't pull it out."  
"It's treacherous."  
"No, it's lovely.  
"Easy for you to say."  
"I've got loads of grey hair. Here at the front even, see?"  
"Well it looks perfect on you."  
"So it does on you, lovely. Very distinguished."  
"'Distinguished' is politeness for 'decrepit.'"  
"Rubbish."  
"You're just pleased to be the decidedly more handsome one, now I'm getting so old."  
"Here now, I'm older than you are."  
"And you look even more dashing than the day I met you...what? What's funny about that?"  
"Ha, nothing really. Only I was thinking we're a bit sickening, aren't we?"  
"Are we?"  
"We're arguing over who's handsomer."  
"I suppose that is rather revolting."  
"Mmm rather. It's a good job we're so handsome to make up for it."  
"Oh yes. Handsome indeed."

...

John,  
You are heroically intoxicated, having a piss with the door open, and reciting Prufrock at the top of your lungs. Every time I think you’ve charmed me to the extent possible, you unspool an entire new galaxy of charm. Here now, you’ve got me mixing my metaphors. Disgusting.  
S


	385. Chapter 385

I walked in one evening after work to discover Sherlock sprawled naked on the sofa, reading a magazine.

“Let me guess,” I squeezed onto the sofa next to him and kissed him. “This is an experiment on the efficacy of arse sweat as a leather conditioner.”

Sherlock looked up from the magazine to accommodate the kiss and made a dismissive little wave that turned into a rude hand gesture. “I prefer sarcasm. It improves anything.”

“Mm, that’s why you married me,” I kissed him again, and he grinned.

“It may appear in my list of reasons,” he said, splaying his magazine across his chest and shifting a bit to prop his head against my knee.

I stroked his hair. “Will you answer me if I ask you how your day was?”

“Very interesting,” he said. “We’ve a client this evening. Go and have a wash, will you? Your hands are dirty, from the tube I suppose, and you do not smell to your credit.”

“Oh, you think I’m not presentable to meet a client, do you?” I gave him a little jab in the ribs, and he squirmed, giggled and glared, then cleared his throat.

“Once your hands are clean, be a lamb and run an iron over the shirt I laid out for myself. It’s…” he picked up his magazine and resumed reading. “Wrinkled.”

“I suppose you won’t get dressed until I do?”

“Do you want me to put on a wrinkled shirt, John?” Sherlock lowered his magazine again and smiled winningly at me. “And anyway, what reason could you have to refuse?”

“A lesser man would be embarrassed to be so completely wrapped round your little finger,” I said, getting up and making for the bathroom.

Sherlock called after me, “You’re a great man, John Watson, and my appreciation for your forbearance is exceeded only by my appreciation for your clean fingernails.”

I went into the bedroom first to get undressed, and stepped into the bathroom, where I found Sherlock standing in the shower cubicle.

He smiled, “Fancy meeting you here. It really takes you ages to undress.”

“Oh, are you coming in with me? I thought I did not smell to my credit.”

“You’re coming in with me, and you don’t seem at all appreciative of my magnanimity.”

I stepped into the shower as Sherlock turned on the tap. “I’m practically choking on magnanimity, lovely.”

Sherlock smirked and reached for the cloth and shower wash. “I hope I have a lighter touch than that,” he said, lathering it up, then scouring at my chest.

“This is luxurious treatment. Perhaps I’ll come in smelling not to my credit a bit more often.”

“If you want a scrubbing, just ask for a scrubbing, John,” Sherlock attended to my shoulders. “I’m sure I can make myself very industrious on your account.” He kissed the back of my neck.

“Well that’s certainly true.” Sherlock hummed one of his half laughs against my neck and sucked at the tingling spot his laugh left in its wake. "Mmm, Sherlock," I said, but it didn't come out much like a remonstrance. Sherlock sucked harder, pulling me close and steadying me with a hand on my hip. “We’re meant to be making ourselves presentable. We don’t often come away from that sort of thing looking very presentable, do we?”

“We’re already in the shower, John.” Sherlock dropped the cloth and made better use of the hand it freed.

“There’s more to presentability than unstickiness, Sherlock.”

“Is there?” Sherlock pulled me flush against him and gave me a little squeeze.

“I’m sure I’m not going to come away with a presentable expression.”

Sherlock turned me gently to face him and kissed me. “As ever, I take full responsibility for your unpresentable expressions, my John. Anyway,” he dropped very carefully to his knees and smiled up at me, “You’re so fucking delicious when you’re wet.”


	386. Chapter 386

“Stop grumbling. It’s distracting.” Check the scrawled map again and squint up at the sky to be sure that we’re still bearing east. John’s got the compass, and he’s lagging. His stamina suffers when his attitude is poor, and we were not expecting this expedition.

“Why’ve the bloody hives got to be so bloody far from the bloody house?”

“Shut up, John.”

“Gah!” hear John slap at himself. “Something’s just bitten me!”

“Hush John, or everyone will want some,” through my teeth. “I’m trying to focus on the case, and your griping is interfering.”

John’s voice is getting smaller as he falls farther behind, “If we’ve really got to slog out to look at these stupid hives, you might at least let me complain, Sherlock!” Not quite sure why that particular remark breaks my temper, but I whirl to retort, lose my footing on the muddy ledge, and go for a bit of an impromptu toboggan down the steep slope of the hill. Have a moment to take in John’s panicked face before I go sliding away from him (sliding is a very gentle way to put it)(implies fewer sharp stones than there are, certainly). “Jesus Sherlock!”

Lie in a dazed, bruised, and muddy heap (this suit is irretrievable, I fear) at the bottom of the hill before I see John’s face over the edge of the ledge.

“Are you all right?” he calls down as he begins to descend after me, “I’m coming!”

“I’m fine, John. Carefully, please. No need for you to be as wretched a mess as I am.” Try and sound casual, but am still fuming as well as filthy, aching, and embarrassed. John crashes and skids as cautiously as he can after me and arrives at my side as I am attempting to push myself to my feet. Wince at the sharp pain in my left ankle when I stand, and glance round at John to see how much of that he took in, and how reasonable he’s going to be about it.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his mouth mulishly downturned. All of it and not at all, apparently.

“It’s fine.” Try and demonstrate that by turning back to the hill and trying to begin scrambling up it, but the pain in my ankle is so acute that I nearly fall over again.

John catches me, “It isn’t. We’re going back.”

“We’re not going back,” I say, furious at the pricking in my eyes. “It’s fine, John.”

“It isn’t fine, Sherlock! You can barely walk.”

“It’s fine!” I insist, trying at least to take a few steps. It isn’t, as it turns out. Go over in a heap again and glare up at John, as if he’s done it to me.

Since John is a much more admirable person than I am, he takes no notice of my expression. Only kneels in the mud next to me (a small corner of my mind sighs wistfully over the untimely demise of John’s lovely green trousers) and turns his attention to my injured leg, clucking in sympathy as he shifts my trouser leg up to have a look. “Told you you were a fool trying to come out here in those shoes, didn’t I? Mm. Swelling already. Turn it for me, please.” Obey as best I can, though it smarts horribly. “Right. It’s sprained. We’re going back, Sherlock.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Yes, we are. You’re no good like this, are you? We’re going back. You’re going to get cleaned up, and we’re going to get you some ice and a brace and some ibuprofen, and you’ll come back later.”

“I don’t keep my brains in my ankle, John. I’m just as good as I ever was.” We glare at each other for a long moment, then John sighs.

“All right, you stubborn git.” He turns his back to me and points at it over his shoulder. “I suppose I’m setting a really horrible precedent.” Takes me a moment to understand him (perhaps I do keep my brains in my ankle?). “Come on, before I change my mind.” Feel such a surge of gratitude that my eyes begin to prick again (push that aside; no time for that now). I clamber onto his back, and he curls one hand around each of my lower thighs, just above the knees. “All right? Got your seat?”

I nod, then answer aloud, “Yes, John.” (He does enjoy that particular combination of words)(he says so all the time).

“Good.” John rises more smoothly and gracefully than I’d have thought possible under my weight, and stands still for a moment to allow us to settle into our places. “You are far lighter than you ought to be, by the way.”

I hook my chin over his shoulder and answer quietly into his ear, “Lucky thing for us now.”

“When we’re through here, you are going to have a really really good dinner. Lots of them, I think. We’ll start with that thing with the peas that you like so much.” John says lovely things as if they’re threats. John is tremendous. I adore John. Kiss the back of his neck, and I know he smiles, though I can’t see him smile. “Well, come on then. That way, eh?” he indicates with his chin.

“More that way, I think,” I point, clinging on tighter with my free arm, and John sets out, following my pointing finger.

I know I oughtn’t to be thinking now what a lovely thrill it is for John to carry me, but oh, it’s such a lovely thrill. For some reason his pace is better now, and he even hums a bit as he carries me out of the little ravine. His fingers squeeze my thighs from time to time, and his smell comes thick off the back of his neck (he’s sweating against the top of his collar)(it’s damp already)(I want to lick along the border)(don’t think of that now). If I lay my cheek against him, I can feel his pulse (lovely)(do not get distracted!). When we’re back on our right path, I make as if to dismount, but John won’t let me.

“No, you don’t,” he says, gripping my legs. “I’m fine. You’re just going to make your ankle worse.” Can’t help laughing when he breaks into a jog, so that I won’t be able to hop down.

“Oh all right,” I say, patting his shoulder. “John, you’ve convinced me. I’m not going to bolt.”

“Promise?”

Raise my right hand and hold it out so that he can see it, “I, Sherlock Holmes, do solemnly vow not to ungratefully bolt away from my faithful steed, John Watson.” John laughs and slows his pace. Kiss the back of his neck, and John whinnies. Laugh delightedly and reach out on impulse to twist a blossom off a rhododendron bush as we pass it. I tuck the flower behind John’s ear and kiss his neck again, “There you are, my steed. Your victory wreath.”

John cocks his head to look around at me and grin, “Lucky for me you haven’t got the crop with you.”


	387. Chapter 387

“How’s that, love?”  
“Much better, thank you. Less distracting.”  
“Not too cold?”  
“Erm. It’s ice, John.”  
“Ha, right. The ibuprofen should take effect soon. It's really not as bad as I thought, though I expect it hurts quite a bit at the moment.”  
“It’s fine, John. I’ll be all right, soon. All right now, really. Except for the walking bit.”  
“I don’t like to see you fall.”  
“I know.”  
“Did we get enough samples, or do you need me to go back for a bit more?”  
“No, we have plenty. We’ll go back to London tomorrow, I think.”  
“Okay good. I’ll hire a car, so we don’t have to bother with the train on your ankle.”  
“John, the train will be perfectly all right. It’s not as bad as all that.”  
“Right. I think I’ll go and have a bath, lovely. Unless you need me.”  
“Go ahead, John.”  
“Only I’m a bit sore.”  
“Yes, well. Long day. John?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“Thank you for the rescue, John.”  
“Of course, love.”  
“I’d be lost without you. Truly.”  
“It was only a little tumble, love.”  
“You know what I mean, John.”  
“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I do.”

...

John,   
Though I know to depend on you better than I know anything else, you manage to astonish me at every turn. Your assistance and support are invaluable to me, and I am looking forward to making much of you, when I have the ability to devote my full attention to you.   
S

 

Hullo love,   
Anything. Anytime. Always.   
Yours,   
John. 

...

Can you do me a favour?  
~Molly~

 

Sherlock isn’t answering his texts.   
~Molly~

 

Ta very much. 

 

Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.   
~Molly~

 

Ha, no it’s fine. Just having a laugh. What do you need?

 

Greg and I are away on a mini-break. Can you look in on Toby and Felicia?  
~Molly~

 

Sorry to ask at the last minute. Sally was going to do it, but she got called in.   
~Molly~

 

I’m not just a really horrible mum.   
~Molly~

 

Sure, no problem. 

 

We’re sort of in the middle of a case, but Sherlock’s been staring into his microscope and muttering for the last two hours, so I can get away for a bit. 

 

Thank you!   
~Molly~

 

You’re welcome, Molly. 

 

You two away long?

 

Just another night. Got to run, though. See you soon!  
~Molly~

 

See you!


	388. Chapter 388

John, where are you?  
-SH

 

I’ve been raving for the last five minutes and have just realised that it’s actually Skip in your chair.  
-SH

 

Sorry, love. Popped out for a bit to look in on Molly’s cats. She and Greg are away on holiday.

 

Did you need me?

 

I’ve solved it!  
-SH

 

Brilliant!

 

Oscar is innocent! Only rather an idiot, poor man.  
-SH

 

Who was the real poisoner then? Or are we still working on that?

 

No, there is no real poisoner. It was all an accident.  
-SH

 

The honey wasn’t poisoned; it was poison!  
-SH

 

Should I be seeing a distinction?

 

The bees they keep have been making it from the nectar of the rhododendrons all over the property.  
-SH

 

Poisonous stuff.  
-SH

 

Anyway, the involved parties have all been informed.  
-SH

 

That must have been rather tender.

 

I’m sure I know nothing of such things.  
-SH

 

But I’m tired of texting you, John.  
-SH

 

Come home at once. I want to revel in the perfection of our partnership.  
-SH

Coming, lovely.

 

I’ll be right there.

...

Sherlock must have heard me on the stairs because when I stepped into the flat, I was hit by a blast of music like a physical force. Took me a moment to recognise it. See the Conqu'ring Hero Comes. I made for him anyway, hands over my ears, grinning despite all the noise. When I was within two steps of him, he stopped his playing, set down his instrument, and launched himself at me. I caught him instinctively, and he wrapped his legs round my waist and his arms round my neck, nuzzling his face against mine like an enormous cat.

"Well hello my lovely love." I dandled him once, then began to attempt to disengage him, but he clung on tighter.

Satisfaction was rolling off him so thick, I could practically see it in the air like fog, "Tell me I'm marvellous, John."

"Always," I was half laughing; his excitement and enthusiasm are so infectious.

"Tell me some of those pretty things you tell me when you're so throbbing with the thrill of the chase that you've simply got to coax me away to a coat cupboard before you do something indiscreet." He rocked in my arms, and I nearly dropped him.

"Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock slid out of my arms to the floor, but held me tight against him, leaning in to husk into my ear. “Don’t you have anything in mind, John? You seemed bursting with endearments the other day. You were practically incontinent with admiration, weren’t you? Isn’t there any-” he reached down and undid my flies, “Spillover?” His hand was inside my pants before I could scrape together a reply, and at that point it seemed superfluous. “Not that you weren’t brilliant yourself,” he murmured, his fingers feather-light in contrast with the arm around my waist still holding me tightly. “Though I admit it was distracting. Thinking of it.Tasting your smell in my mouth. Feeling you moving under me,” he dropped his head to mouth at my throat, and I gasped. “Sweating under me. Holding me.” He bit me.

“Oh god!”

“John,” Sherlock tugged at me with the arm round my waist. “Let’s go into the bedroom? Please?”

“Yes!”

“Yes,” Sherlock nuzzled against me and bit me again, those delicate fingers on me growing a bit firmer. “Yes, John yes! I want to admire you. I want to lavish you. I want to really take you in.”


	389. Chapter 389

Sherlock was quick enough about hustling me into the bedroom and getting me out of my kit. Then he went sort of languid. He curled up to me and laid his head on my chest, then rather imperiously rolled me onto my side and pressed up against my back. He nuzzled the back of my neck, and I felt the tip of his tongue dot against my skin before he hooked his chin over my shoulder and made a little sigh of satisfaction.

“Don’t we slot together nicely, John?” He pulled down on my hips so that they were flush against his. “Do you think about that? I think about that. We always find a way to fit.” Sherlock shifted his hand from my hip to my chest. “Do you think about that, John?”

I cocked my head toward him a bit and waited for him to lean up and kiss me before I answered, “Sometimes.”

He sighed again and began to stroke my chest, lightly and with affected nonchalance. The way he’d touched my cock out in the sitting room. “It’s elegant. Fitting with you, John.” He tucked his face against my neck for a moment and kissed it, “The most elegant thing I do, I believe.”

“Well that’s flattering, lovely.” I pushed back against him, pleased to find that he was hard.

“Mmmm,” he snuffled against my neck and skimmed his hand from my chest down to my belly. Promising. But his hand was still quite light, and he carried on musing into my ear. “You make it so easy.”

“Aren’t you meant to be lavishing me? Or is this preamble?” I pushed back against him, and Sherlock held my hip with one hand.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, lowering his lips to the back of my neck as he hummed. I felt it in my spine and through my chest, and it made me shiver a bit, “Am I not getting on to your liking, my John?”

“Well, seems a bit churlish to criticise,” I answered demurely.

Sherlock laughed a low, wicked laugh that felt almost like another hand and rubbed his cock against my arse. “And your manners are far too fine for churlishness.”

“I’ve got beautiful manners. Hurry up and touch my cock.”

Sherlock burst into ticklish giggles against the back of my neck, then withdrew the hand on my torso. He licked his hand noisily, then wrapped his fist lightly around me. “How is that, John? Like so?”

I licked my lips. “Tighter. And stroke me. Slow. Mmmm yes, lovely. That’s perfect.” I tried to turn in his arms so that I could kiss him, but he pulled me in even tighter (rubbed the damp tip of his cock against my arse while he was at it) and wrapped his right leg around mine.

“I like you where you are, John. I’ve a new-found affinity for being wrapped round you this way.”

I pressed my legs together and arched back into him, and Sherlock took the hint eagerly, pushing his cock between my thighs. “I’ve a longstanding affinity for looking right at you when I have you, lovely. Did you know that?” I felt him nod against my back, but I asked again anyway. “Did you know that, Sherlock? Hmm?”

“Yes, John,” it came as a hot gust against my neck and jaw, and Sherlock quickened the rocking of his hips. I fucking love it when he says that to me.

“I suppose you also know,” I paused to lay my hand over his on my cock to tighten his grip, and when I spoke up again, my voice was rough. “I reckon you also know how much I love to watch you flush and sweat and shiver, when I have you. Mmm?”

“Yes, John!” Sherlock buried his face against my shoulder and thrust harder, which was a nice boost for me up into his fist.

“Lick your hand again, love.” Sherlock obeyed at once and resumed stroking my cock with an excellent little squeeze on his upstroke. Sherlock knows exactly what I like, only he likes to make me make him give it to me. We hummed in unison. Sherlock began to make sweet, quavering sounds in my ear. “Getting close, lovely?”

“Ahhh! Yes, John!” Sherlock thrust again, shivered, and gasped against my neck as he came.

“God Sherlock, you’re so fucking gorgeous!”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, John.” And he bit down hard on the back of my neck and sent me over.


	390. Chapter 390

“No laptop after sex, John.”  
“You’ve been asleep! Anyway, it’s been nearly an hour. I’m outside of the zone.”  
“There is no outside of the zone. You’re mine always. Put that away and pet me.”  
“Bossy. Nearly done, anyway.”  
“At the rate you type, we might still be hours off.”  
“Haaaa. Shut up.”  
“John! Pet me!”  
“Compromise, then. A kiss. ...mmm better, lovely?”  
“Marginally.”  
“Well let me finish then, and I’ll kiss you properly.”  
“What are you doing that’s so important, anyway?”  
“Blog.”  
“About?”  
“Us.”  
“Me, you mean. You’re bowled over by my magnificence again. Unsurprising.”  
“Well yes, actually.”  
“Naturally.”  
“I’m thinking of calling this one ‘The Case of the Damn Good Shag.’ How’s that for a title?”  
“You and your drollery. You’re doing the bee thing, I suppose.”  
“Mmmyep. And...I’m...done! See. Told you I was nearly there.”  
“Yes, and since you never proofread-”  
“Yes, I do!”  
“Since you never, ever, ever proofread. Since proofreading is anathema to your lackadaisical soul, put that away and pet me.”  
“Oh, all right. Menace.”  
“Matched set, John.”

...

A Sticky Business

This particular case was somewhat unusual, as we were approached by the victim this time. Nothing unusual in that in itself. We’re often approached by people wanting us to help them avert some terrible possibility or to bring their antagonist to justice. This time it was unusual because the victim came to us for help in clearing the accused.

Arthur Wilde came to us asking for our assistance in proving his husband, Oscar Silverman, hadn’t actually tried to murder him. Arthur had just gotten out of hospital, where he’d been for a few days, recovering from being poisoned. As an artist, Arthur worked from home and often went weeks without seeing anyone except Oscar, because of the remoteness of their living situation. Arthur developed some nasty symptoms, and a tox screen at the hospital showed that he’d been slowly poisoned with a toxin found in the rhododendron bushes that grew on their property. Obviously he wasn’t eating rhododendrons without noticing; someone had been dosing him with it. Oscar was really the only suspect. Arthur’d not been near anybody else for weeks. So Oscar was arrested and sent off to jail, and as soon as Arthur was released from hospital, he came to us to ask for help.

Arthur actually didn’t even have much proof that it wasn’t Oscar. Only he knew it couldn’t be. Sherlock sort of scoffed at that. Didn’t want to take the case, at first. Like the police, he reckoned it had to be someone, and since there was no other person it could possibly be, it must be Oscar. I asked him if there was any way I might be secretly poisoning him and after that, he saw things differently. He consented to be told what had happened. But that was actually another interesting bit. Apart from Arthur’s illness, nothing out of the ordinary had happened in their household at all. Hadn’t met anybody new. Hadn’t gone anywhere in particular. Arthur had no known enemies, and no one really stood to gain anything from killing him.

Sherlock got all eyebrow-y and excited after hearing that. The more impossible a case seems, the more he likes it. We went back to Arthur’s house with him that very day to have a poke around. On the way up, Sherlock made Arthur recite everything that had happened to him for the last week in chronological order. On the third recitation, Arthur mentioned having gone out to paint and finding some wild honeybee hives and gathering some honey. Sherlock didn’t call him an idiot aloud, but he did think it very loudly. Still, I think I’ve been a good influence on him. Once we were on the property, Sherlock and I trekked out to the hives to have a look at them, as Sherlock thought they could be relevant.

As it turns out, they were extremely relevant. All round the property were rhododendron bushes, which made sense, as the poison Arthur had been dosed with was derived from rhododendron. We gathered a bit of honey from the hives and got some from Arthur as well, since he’d actually got a little pot of it from the last time he was out at the hives. Sherlock had formed his suspicions and off we went back to London. After a few tests, Sherlock confirmed that the honey was poison, as the bees had been making it from those poisonous flowers. Poor Arthur had been unknowingly dosing himself with poison honey. Well after we got that sorted out, it was no problem getting Oscar released.  
So a happy ending on that one, and Sherlock got to learn a load more about bees. Last night he fell asleep mumbling something about the segregation of the queen. It was quite sweet. No pun intended.

 

Comments (18):

Sherlock Holmes:  
‘Happy ending’? You’re not even trying to make these sound like anything other than fairy tales, are you? And I suppose there isn't any point in requesting that you not tarnish any accounts of my doings with puns? Also you imply that I took this case because I identify with the clients or something. Objectionable. I took the case because it interested me, John. Because the obvious solution couldn’t be the solution. Not to play the hero.

 

John Watson:  
What can I say? You’re my knight in shining armour.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Oh for the love of god.

 

John Watson:  
He’s blushing.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I am not!

 

John Watson:  
Right up to the roots of his hair.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Shocking and bold-faced lies.

 

John Watson:  
Should I post the photo I’ve just taken? Bit of proof?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Insufferable man.

 

John Watson:  
You love my insufferability

Sherlock Holmes:  
Finally here’s evidence of how dreadful you are on display for the world to see.

 

John Watson:  
I’m not ashamed.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
While we’re on the subject of dreadful and insufferable, where is our peanut gallery?

 

John Watson:  
Well no one takes any notice of anything I post on a Friday evening. But Greg and Molly are on a mini-break. Remember I went to feed their cat?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Oh yes.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Have we still got some of that champagne on hand? That the sommelier sent us after we solved the thing with all those ferrets?

 

John Watson:  
Two bottles left, I think. Why?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
No reason.


	391. Chapter 391

Hullo love,  
The time has come for a tidy up, I'm afraid. You just can't have your desk, my desk, the kitchen table, and the dining table. Have reclaimed my desk already by moving your things back to yours, and am looking forward to all the stroppy faces and noises you'll make because of this. Please clear up the dining table as well. By the way, I found a case of tinned scorpions on my desk. Scorpions are not for eating, love. Please do not try and eat them.  
Yours,  
John

...

“What on earth is that?”  
“It’s a bin bag. What’s it look like?”  
“It looks like a piece of irrelevance that I want farther away from me.”  
“Well it’s a piece of relevance that you’re chucking some of this rubbish into.”  
“I’m certainly not.”  
“You certainly are.”  
“Stop nursemaiding me, John.”  
“This is not about me looking after you; this is about me not wanting to pick my way through cobwebby towers of your stuff when I walk around my own sitting room. Have we really got to keep all this stuff you printed out about bees?”  
“Could be useful in future.”  
“It really couldn’t.”  
“I am the expert in the room, you know. As the world’s only consulting detective..”  
“World’s only?”  
“Apologies, John. I forgot myself.”  
“Don’t mention it. Take the bag and put some of this in it, or I’ll do it for you.”  
“Tyrant.”  
“Come on, Sherlock! I’m serious! It’s a complete mess in here...Oh and I know that look. Don’t think that you’re going to get out of cleaning by trying to tell me about an old case. Fool me twice and that.”  
“I wasn’t trying to fool you, only I’m terribly interesting.”  
“Nice try. Get to work.”

...

“Oh hullo. John, look. Look what I’ve just found.”  
“I said ‘Nice try; get to work.’”  
“It’s some of our clippings, John. Can’t imagine how they escaped your scrapbook.”  
“It isn’t a scrapbook; it’s a casebook. I’m your official biographer, remember?”  
“Mmm. Faintly. Have you got these already?”  
“Oh, this is from our press conference after we nabbed Moran. Ah, the young and innocent John Watson.”  
“Mmm indeed. I like this photo.”  
“Do you?”  
“Well of course I do, John. Look how besotted you are. It might be your wedding day.”  
“Yeah, I suppose I do look quite starry-eyed. Ha. It’s the company.”  
“Indeed. Though in fairness, you’d had about six hours sleep in two days. Enough to make anyone look a bit lovesick.”  
“Nah, when I’m sleep-deprived, I look murder-y. I looked lovesick because I was completely lovesick. God I adored you.”  
“Mind your tenses, Fortunato.”  
“Ha, excuse me, love. I adore you now, even though I know exactly what you’re doing, Montresor.”  
“That’s more like it. Ah, here’s another. Just the photo from the paper this time without the caption, but I know it must be the kidnapping we did for Mycroft because I binned those hideous trousers you’re wearing in the photo right after that. Also it was when you'd got that haircut that made your ears look. Unfortunate.”  
“Oi!”  
“They look lovely now, John. Lesson learnt, mm?”  
“Don’t be an arsehole.”  
“I’m not. Anyway, don’t try and deny that you’re very fond of arseholes, John. I’ve got loads of evidence to the contrary.”  
“...and now I’ve got wine coming out of my nose. Hope you’re happy.”  
“In ecstasy.”


	392. Chapter 392

“Don’t shhh me! Why are you shhhing me? You shhh! Ohhh! No, John! Why are you stopping?”  
“Shh, I thought I heard some one on the stairs.”  
“So?!”  
“So it could be a client.”  
“Errrrrrrrrrrrgh.”  
“Shhhh, hang on. Do you hear that?”  
“No!”  
“Well shut up for a moment. Some one’s knocking.”  
“I don’t c-John! Nooooo, don’t pull out! You’ve just barely got in!”  
“Well, if I could levitate you in front of me while I go and have a look, I might consider that, love, but I can’t.”  
“No, John! Just leave it, and they’ll go away.”  
“Or Mrs Hudson will let them in.”  
“She wouldn’t dare!”  
“Why not? Have you put the ‘no visitors, please; we’re fucking’ notice on the door?”  
“Hmph.”  
“Oh your sulking is even sweeter when you’re sulking with an erection.”  
“Go away. I don’t like you anymore.”  
“Ha, rule one, Sherlock.”

...

It was Greg and Molly at the door. Somehow I wasn’t expecting that. Hand in hand and already huddling toward the door as I opened it, ready to come inside.

“Hello!” Molly sang, “Can we come in?”

“Hello yes, yes of course. Come in,” I stepped back to let them pass and as they entered, Molly looked round eagerly for Sherlock. I opened my mouth to give some excuse for his absence but then the bedroom door banged, and we all heard the shower go. I rubbed the back of my head. “Sorry, we er, we were just. Not expecting you.”

“Sorry to surprise you,” Greg said. “Only we were in the area, and we actually had something in particular to tell you, so we thought we’d just pop in for a minute.”  
I grinned and tried hard not to glance at Molly’s left hand, “Well sit down. I’ll just chivvy him out of the shower then, shall I?” I went off to do so without waiting for a reply. “It’s Greg and Molly with news,” I said, as I entered the bathroom without bothering to knock. Sherlock sighed loudly enough to be heard over the spray, and I dithered a moment, then went into the bedroom to dress.

Sherlock entered as I was doing up my flies and began to huffily get into his clothes. “Are you a little bit cross with me, lovely?” I asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock tossed his hair, flicking water all over me, and preceded me out of the bedroom. “Bit late for a visit,” he said, as he entered the sitting room. “We were on our way to bed.”

“Yeah, sorry. We’d have rung first, but we were so nearby.” Greg looked at his watch. “Hang on, it’s only half eight. You were on your way to bed? Are you ill?”

“Something to drink?” I offered. “Tea? Coffee?”

“We’re getting married!” Molly burst out, then clapped her hand over her mouth as if she’d startled herself. Greg nodded vigorously and squeezed her hand.

I grinned and glanced round at Sherlock. He was beaming. It was lovely. “Congratulations!” we said in unison, and Sherlock nudged me with his elbow. Molly giggled behind her hand, her face flushing around her fingers.

“Yeah, we’ve set a date already, actually,” Greg had an edge of giddiness to his voice, though he was trying to sound casual. “First of November.”

Sherlock bounced his eyebrows, “You’re keen.”

Greg looked at Molly, and she nodded, “You can do my bit, since I did your bit,” she said, her voice muffled by her hand still hovering near her mouth.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Molly nodded again, and Greg drew a long breath, and squeezed her hand hard, “Molly’s going to have a baby.” Molly’s blush deepened, but her smile grew broad enough to see even from behind her hand.

“You should see your faces,” she said with a little giggle. “You look more surprised than this one did,” she nudged Greg, and he laughed.

“I asked her to marry me, and she answered, ‘I’m pregnant!’”

“John asked me if I was plotting his murder, when I tried to propose,” Sherlock said with a cheeky glance at me.

“Yes, all right!” I cleared my throat, “Congratulations again, you two! That’s wonderful!” We all popped up out of our seats and did a sort of hug shuffle that ended with me hugging Sherlock and Molly hugging Greg. Sherlock nosed my hair, and sighed silently against me. I felt the little gust on the top of my head.

Then he cleared his throat, “Champagne!” he declared, his voice just a tiny bit thick. Sherlock gave me a little squeeze, then made for the kitchen, but we all followed along after. I dug the champagne out of the fridge, while Sherlock got glasses down from the cabinet. Molly and Greg whispered behind us, leaning against the worktop, their faces turned together to shine private little smiles on each other.

I poured the champagne, and Sherlock handed it round. We all stood grinning soppily at each other for a few moments. “Thank you for including us in this,” Sherlock said quietly.

Greg nodded avidly, and Molly said, “Of course we would!”

Sherlock sucked his bottom lip for a moment, then raised his glass. “To love and family.”

“Love and family,” we echoed together. And we all touched our glasses together and drank.


	393. Chapter 393

You should call your baby John.  
-SH

I’m not naming my baby after your husband.  
~Molly~

 

It’s an excellent name.  
-SH

 

Then you use it.  
~Molly~

 

I haven’t got a baby.  
-SH

 

Bad luck.  
~Molly~

 

So what are you calling yours, then?  
-SH

 

None of your business.  
~Molly~

 

You don’t know yet, do you?  
-SH

 

-forwarded message-  
None of your business.  
~Molly~

 

You’re not going to use a middle name, are you?  
-SH

 

-forwarded message-  
None of your business.  
~Molly~

 

Stop pestering me. You sound like my mother.  
~Molly~

 

Goodness. No one has ever accused me of that before.  
-SH

 

You’re very good at pestering. You could teach a course.  
~Molly~

 

Thank you.  
-SH

 

So how do you feel about being inhabited?  
-SH

 

I imagine I’d find it psychologically unsettling.  
-SH

 

Still seems sort of theoretical, actually. If you know what I mean. My mum says I’ll feel differently after the scan, and I get to actually see the Blob.  
~Molly~

 

Anyway, you’ve always thought of yourself as uninhabitable. So it’s different for you.  
~Molly~

 

Indeed.  
-SH

...

“My John.”  
“My Sherlock.”  
“John?”  
“Yes, lovely?”  
“Are you sure-”  
“Absolutely.”  
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”  
“Am I sure I don’t want to have a baby, even though our best friends are having a baby?”  
“Well. Yes.”  
“I’m sure that I know I'm not giving anything up. What I want is to carry on being with you and being completely wild about the family we’ve already got. Is that what you want?”  
“Yes, John. Yes, that is what I want.”

...

Hullo love,

I don’t know how to start this. I know what I want you to know, but I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m scolding. I’m not scolding. I’m not cross with you. I’m not annoyed at having to say it again. I want to say it again. I want you to know, just like you know you’re not going to fall through a sinkhole every time you put one foot in front of the other. I’ll tell you how I feel about you, as best I can, every day, if you like. I’ll make you a sonnet every day before breakfast. How’s that?

You are everything to me. You are my world. Telling you that you are enough for me seems ridiculous, because you are so much more than sufficient. You make me feel so awake and alive and strong and good and relevant. You make me feel like finally I'm in a world that’s meant for me. You are so much more than enough, Sherlock. I won’t ask you to never forget again. That inadequate feeling worries at us all, from time to time. I do ask you to tell me when you do forget. If you feel unsure, tell me. And I can remind you as often as you like that I am for you, just like you're for me. You are my all.

Yours,  
John


	394. Chapter 394

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to stitchy. Happy birthday, darling! <3

“Want to pop in here? I seem to recall you complaining about the recent unfortunate fate of your favourite tie.”  
“Oh you remember that bit of my complaint, do you? Not the beginning bit?”  
“Mmmno. Must have deleted that bit, and anyway it was an accident that I have already apologised for.”  
“Ha, yes. So you have.”  
“Churlish of you to bring it up, don’t you think?”  
“My long-suffering husband. Well an apology kiss from churl to churl.”  
“...mmm. Lovely, John...mm. Anyway, you’ll want something smart for the wedding. Or, ahem, I gather that people who take an interest in that sort of thing generally do”  
“Ha, yes. People who take an interest in that sort of thing. But it’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”  
“Well John, we may not have a minute before the thing, you know. Circumstances do change so quickly for us. We may find ourselves suddenly very thoroughly occupied until October’s been and gone. It happens occasionally.”  
“So it does.”  
“Well then.”  
“All right, love. But I know you’re mostly suggesting this because you get off on dressing me like a doll, Mr No-John-Not-That-Jumper.”  
“I’m sure I’ve not the faintest idea what you mean by that remark, John.”

...

“No liberty print, Sherlock,” John calls after me, as I make for a rack of ties. “And no more cravats; I’m not going to wear a cravat. I mean it.”

Nod in reply, “Yes, I heard your spoilsporting the first time.” John snorts and carries on examining socks. I turn my attention to the ties. Something soothing about this activity, when I’m in the right sort of mood. The smell of the silk, the texture of it. Skim my hand along the loose coils and pluck out several likely looking candidates. I drape them over my arm as I collect them, and when I’ve half a dozen hanging off me, I go back to John and hold out my findings. “Let’s see what you think of these before I look at any more,” I suggest.

“All right,” John agrees, and I take him by the shoulders and steer him to a mirror, pausing when I get him there to nose the top of his head (mostly smells of shampoo at the moment)(almost disappointing)(still that little dose of evergreen, though)(mmm).

“Try the cravat first,” I say.

John grins at me in the mirror and shakes his head, “I’m really not going to wear a cravat, Sherlock.”

Lean forward so that my chest his brushing his shoulders and answer low in his ear, “No, but you’re going to oblige your tremendously grateful husband, aren’t you?”

John rolls his eyes, but his grin broadens. “Go on, then. If you can’t be stopped.” And he raises his chin to allow me to drape the cravat round his neck. I take him by the shoulders and turn him to me, so that I can tie it on him properly. He submits quietly to my positioning him and smiles up at me, when we’re face to face. I can see his mouth curve, though my eyes are on my fingers and the knot I’m forming (and the quickening of his pulse at his throat just above my fingers)(mmm). Pop open his second shirt button to tuck the cravat down his shirt, against his vest.

“Very handsome,” I say, smoothing my hand down his chest.

John turns back to the mirror with a jaunty cock of his head, “Right, well. Can’t be helped, that, now can it? I am very, very handsome.” He strokes the cravat under his shirt considering. “Mm, that is handsome, isn’t it? Hmmm.” He squints at his reflection for a moment, then shakes his head. “Well it won’t quite do for the wedding. Maybe another occasion.” He begins to undo the cravat with his left hand and holds out his right for the next. I drape a new tie over his open hand. It’s a deep slate blue, embroidered with sprigs of lavender. “Oh hello,” John whips off the cravat, then loops the tie round his neck and begins to tie it. “This might do very nicely. Yes, I think it will.”

“Are you taking the first tie you try, John? You’re going to lose your clotheshorse credentials.”

“It’ll look good with my blue suit. And if you wear that purple shirt you wore to our w-”

“It was lavender.”

“Ha, yes. Lavender. If you wear that shirt with your grey suit, and I have this with my grey shirt and blue suit, we’ll look quite the pair, won’t we? Sharp enough to cut ourselves.”

Grin and nose John’s hair again before replying, “Oh yes, John. A matched set.”


	395. Chapter 395

“Want to come to the zoo with Mae and me?”  
“Is that question in code? Because if not, then it does not make sense.”  
"Well we're already at the zoo, but we passed by your flat on our way, and she asked after you."  
"Did she now? I'm surprised she remembered me."  
"Well, she asked after the sparkly man, but I think she meant you."  
"I see."  
"I told her that you probably weren't very sparkly anymore, now it isn't Christmas."  
"Thank you, Molly. I believe if you mention my name in the ice cream shop, you'll come away with a free knickerbocker glory."  
"Won't you come and share one with us?"  
"Why would you want that?"  
"Don't be stupid."  
“I’m afraid I can’t leave this experiment for any length of time.”  
“Bad luck.”  
“Indeed. You should come round later.”  
“I think I will.”  
“See you in a bit, then. Watch out for sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia.”  
“Easily treated with immediate application of the tongue to the palate. You got that from John, didn’t you?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m a doctor as well, remember?”  
“Cadavers get a lot of brain freeze, do they?”  
“It’s surprisingly common. Cold chambers and that.”

...

We could hear Molly's agitated voice on the stairs well before she knocked, so Sherlock was already hovering at the doorway, waiting to see what the row was about.

"Mum...mum...mum! Right, I really need the loo, so erm. Talk to my chief bridesmaid. We're just about to erm er. Do a er. Flowers meeting." Molly shoved her phone at Sherlock as she walked through our front door, and actually went into the bathroom and locked herself in.

Sherlock took the phone, cocking his eyebrow in bemusement and watched Molly into the loo before he raised it to his ear, "Sherlock Holmes here...yes, hello Millicent...I remember, yes...er, yellow I should think...well it is her favourite colour, isn't it? Yes, daffodils are...well roses are classic, also yes. Yes. Yes...yes, I'll tell her...yes. Yes, a lovely boy. Very nice manners, yes....Likewise. Cake? I'm not...yes. Well, I won't keep you...yes...yes. Yes, likewise. Goodnight." He rung off and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

After a moment, Molly poked her head out of the bathroom, “Has my mother stopped talking yet?”

“Coward,” said Sherlock with a disdainful shake of his head.

“She called me right after I dropped off Mae, and she has been lecturing me since,” Molly came out of the bathroom and threw herself rather Sherlockishly onto the sofa.

“Chief bridesmaid?” Sherlock said, moving into his chair.

Molly sat up and smoothed her hair, “That all right? I mean we’re not doing all that bridesmaid rubbish, but I was going to ask you to be my witness.” She pointed at me, “You’re to be Greg’s, okay?”

I grinned, “Okay, thanks. I’m flattered.”

“How was the zoo?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, have you been to the zoo today?” I said.

Molly nodded, “I thought I ought to do some nice auntie things with Mae to keep her mind off the f-word.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Goodness. Keep her mind off the what?”

Molly broke into giggles, then whispered, “Flowergirl.”

“You do know she isn’t actually around,” I said. “Unless you’ve got her crammed in your handbag. No need for euphemisms.”

“God, I’ve had the most awful day,” Molly said, sagging down against the arm of the sofa. “Mae vomited on a duck. Then she cried for bloody half an hour, as if it’d been the other way round. Children are exhausting.” She covered her face with her arm, and I glanced at Sherlock.

“Vomited on a duck?” he said. “How?”

“She was trying to feed the poor creature a cracker on the sly, and she’d had too much knickerbocker glory. She had nearly the whole thing. She seemed fine until, suddenly she technicolour didn’t.”

“Ergh,” I said, giving her shoulder a little pat. “Bad luck, Molly. Kids’ll do that.”

“John once vomited down an escalator,” Sherlock put in brightly.

“When I was eight! How did you even know about that?”

Sherlock grinned at me, “Overheard Harry telling Stamford at your birthday party.”

Molly smiled a bit, “When I was two years old, I vomited on a check-in desk in a hotel.”

“And of course Sherlock has always been too posh to vomit, haven’t you love?” Sherlock only made me a long-suffering sigh in reply.

Molly’s smile broadened, “Sherlock is so posh, he showers in a top hat.”

“That is true, actually,” I said, bouncing my eyebrows at Sherlock. He gave me a look of deepest pity and shook his head sadly. “Sherlock is so posh, he knows thirteen different ways to tie a cravat.”

“The pair of you are ridiculous,” Sherlock said with unparalleled dignity.

Molly laughed, “Sherlock is so posh, he can waltz with a book balanced on his head.”

At that, Sherlock rose from his chair, tied his dressing gown, took a book from a side table, then crossed to Molly, bowed, and offered her his arm.

“Errr,” Molly shot me a nervous glance, stood and took Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock swept the book onto his head as if it were a very fancy hat indeed and led Molly a bit further into the centre of the room. “I don’t know how to do this,” she confessed, as he positioned her hand on his shoulder.

“You can do a box step, can’t you?” At Molly’s errrm, Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped away from her to demonstrate. To his credit, the book stayed in place. “Like that, only you do it backward. Got it?”

“No! You did it so quick. Show me again, slower.”

Sherlock looked at me, “John can you waltz at all?”

I chinned my hand and grinned at him, “What do you think?”

“Useless,” he said, flapping a hand at me.

“Anyway, haven’t you already proved your point?” Molly said.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed and returned to his chair, “If you’re content to slouch about the dance floor like an arrhythmic sack of potatoes on your wedding day, far be it from me to intervene.” He took the book from his head and opened it.

“No, no, show me,” Molly said, and Sherlock rose again, smug and obliging.

I laughed, “I’m feeling suddenly tremendously grateful that we got married in a registry office and didn’t have a reception.”

“Oh you think you’ve escaped me, do you?” Sherlock glowered over Molly’s shoulder, “You’re next, John Watson.”

I got my phone out to film them for Greg. “I knew you were going to say that.”


	396. Chapter 396

Cat missing.  
-SH

 

That a case?

 

No, John. Our cat is missing.  
-SH

 

Smoke.  
-SH

 

That’s bad.

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

I’m sure she’ll turn up.

 

She might still be in the flat. Have you checked the empty bedroom?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

The airing cupboard?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

The linen cupboard?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

Mrs Hudson’s?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

221C?

 

Yes.  
-SH

 

She isn’t in the flat, John. I’ve looked everywhere.  
-SH

 

She’s got out.  
-SH

 

My fault. Left the bloody window ajar while I was downstairs.  
-SH

 

We’ll find her, lovely.

 

Leaving in ten minutes. I’ll help you look.

...

John gives me a hug and a kiss as soon as he walks in. He can see the worry sitting on me, I suppose. Can’t hide anything from him anymore (not really). Think of telling him about Redbeard and decide against it (overdramatic)(pointless).

He goes to the sitting room window (near my music stand) and opens it. “This one, yeah?”

“Yes,” I come and stand behind him.

“Well, she likely didn’t get down into the street. Bit far, mm?” Without looking, he reaches behind him for me, and I tuck my hand into his.

“She might have lept out onto the awning and then down onto the cafe table.”

“Possible, not probable, right lovely?” John gives my hand a squeeze, and I shrug but squeeze back. I ought to be grateful, and I am a bit, but primarily these comforting gestures are stoking my anxiety. If there were nothing the matter, I wouldn’t need comforting. Though likely, if I said that aloud, John would tell me that if I am upset, I need comforting, even if whatever is upsetting me is a very temporary situation. And this must be a temporary situation (please)(to whom is that ‘please’ addressed, exactly?). John leans out of the window and looks to his right. “I’m guessing she climbed onto some one else’ balcony. Shall we go and bother the neighbours?”

“I’ll get dressed first,” I say, stepping back from the window.

John turns to me and hugs me again. I nose his hair (lovely bit of evergreen, so strong today). “It’s going to be completely fine, Sherlock. She’s probably just terrorising one of our innocent neighbours at the moment.” I nod. Why does this feel so catastrophic (ergh! pun)?

Sidestep John and lean past him to shut the window. “I’ll just go and get dressed.”


	397. Chapter 397

Hear a tap at the front door as I’m lacing up my shoes, and John answers it. The person at the door speaks too quietly for me to make out what’s being said, but I can hear that it’s a woman. John replies, likewise too low to make out words, but his tone is warm. More so, frankly, than is his usual way with strangers, unless he’s wheedling a witness for me. Can’t think why he’d have reason to manipulate this particular stranger. We’ve not got a case on at the moment.

Come out of the bedroom still buttoning my cuffs, “Ready, John?” Bit surprised by the crispness of my tone, and so is John, apparently.

He turns to me with raised eyebrows and gestures to the woman standing in our doorway. “No need, actually. This is Portia.”

“Is it?” I approach and stand facing John with my arms folded over my chest.

“Hello!” says Portia, raising a hand to rumple her short, dark hair before extending it to me. “You’ll be the distraught husband, then.”

That certainly came out quickly (embarrassing)(why embarrassing?)(Is this normal or childish?) (Difficult to tell). “Will I?” I shake her hand once, my eyes still on John.

“Portia’s found our cat, and I’ve just been swearing our eternal gratitude,” John prompts, nodding at Portia.

Look back at Portia, who is smiling a toothy, hopeful smile. I dislike being looked at that way. Generally that expression immediately precedes its author being added to my semi-permanent mute list. “Lovely. Thank you.”

“He’s just at the flat,” Portia says. Her smile falters the longer she looks at me, and eventually she switches her gaze to John, which seems to bolster her a bit. “Shall we just pop over and get him?”

“Her.”

“Hmm?”

“Her,” I repeat. “Our cat is a female.”

“Oh,” Portia says. “We’ll pop over and get her, then.”

“I can go,” John says. “You can stay put, if you’d rather, Sherlock.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

John makes his sigh-swallowing face. “No reason at all. Ready Portia?”

Portia nods and smiles, “Ready. Let’s go.”

It’s only about ten steps to Portia’s flat, but she manages to make small talk all the same. “Which of you is the musician?” she asks.

John waits a beat for me to reply, then points at me and says, “That’s him. Violin and explosions are down to him, if you ever want to know who to address your sternly worded letters to.”

Portia smiles and shakes her head politely, “Oh it’s been ages since we’ve heard an explosion. The violin is lovely, though. What was that piece you were playing last night?” she tries to hum, and I try not to grimace.

John nudges my arm, then answers for me. “It was original, actually. He composes as well, don’t you, Maestro?”

Nudge back, “Maestro?” comes out as a sneer. Unintentional. Bite my lip. John frowns at me and shakes his head, and my stomach twists.

“Well this is me,” Portia announces, halting in front of her door and getting her key out. She leads us up to her flat and parks us just inside the doorway. “I’ll go and get the cat.

We’ve been keeping her in the spare room.” And she slips off down a little corridor toward what must be the spare room (corresponds to our bedroom in our flat; she must sleep upstairs).

“Who is it, love?” calls some one on the other end of the flat and above us. Portia is too far away to hear and doesn’t answer, so the some one descends the stairs to investigate, and a moment later, a stocky blonde woman with a toddler in her arms is stepping into the sitting room. “Hello,” she says with a smile. “I’m Jane, and this is Alice,” she dandles the child once, producing a little coo of joy. Jane gives Alice a kiss.

John doesn’t wait for me to answer this time. “John,” he says, pressing one palm to the small of my back (grateful)(makes me smile). “And this is Sherlock.”

“Hello,” I say and make a little wave. John drums his fingers on my back in approval, and I edge half a step closer to him.

Jane nods, “Oh, you’re the Watsons from next door. Martha’s tenants.”

John beams, “In essentials, yes. I’m a Watson; he’s a Holmes. But if you call us ‘the Watsons’, you’ve got the right end of the stick.”

Grin at that and lean back slightly into John’s hand still on my back. “I could be a Watson. Think it could work.”

“It’s an open invitation,” John says, with one of his dazzling looks. Drop my eyes to my feet, and John pats my back once.

“Ahh,” Jane nods. “Neither of us wanted to change our names either. So I’m Jane Whitman; she’s Portia Akram,” she points in the direction Portia disappeared into. “And this one is Alice Akram-Whitman,” she caps her speech by blowing a raspberry on Alice’s cheek. Alice squeals.

Portia enters at this, holding Smoke in her arms, squirming and wrapped in a pink towel. There’s a nasty red line along her collarbone, but she’s smiling, “Hello!” she chirps. “Now we’re all friends together.”

I reach for Smoke and Portia surrenders her at once, “You’ve not been very friendly, have you? Tut tut, you take after me in all the worst ways.” Smoke wraps her paws round my neck and bites my chin reprovingly. “Yes, all right. I was partly to blame. I’m sorry.”

Portia laughs, “You’re a pretty pair,” she says.

“That’s what John says,” I tell her, and she laughs again. “Only he says it snidely because he’s terribly jealous and possessive.” Worry for a moment that I’ve gone too far because John’s eyebrows shoot up.

But Portia and Jane both laugh, and Portia lays a hand on my shoulder, “Well,” she winks at me. “Who could blame him?”


	398. Chapter 398

Dear Portia, Jane, and Alice, 

Thank you very much for looking after our cat. She’s terribly important to me, and I’m very lucky you were on hand. My apologies if I was a bit brusque yesterday. I was preoccupied, and I fear I was less than polite. Perhaps you’d like to join us for dinner tomorrow? John is doing a very nice thing with peas, and he assures me that there will be plenty for all, if you’re interested. Hope to see you tomorrow. 

Kind regards,   
Sherlock Watson (Holmes) 

 

Dear Watsons, 

Delighted. See you tomorrow. Hope you like cake, cos we’re bringing one. 

Yours,   
Portia, Jane, and Alice

…

“Oh!”  
“Oh what?”  
“They’re Mrs Turner’s married ones.”  
“Mmm?”  
“Portia, Jane, and Alice. They’re Mrs-Turner-Next-Door’s married ones. Well Portia and Jane. Ha. Not Alice. She isn’t married to anybody.”  
“Well yes, John. I did think that was fairly obvious.”  
“Not obvious enough to stop you going all green at Portia for having the nerve to knock on our door.”  
“Yes, yes. Sherlock is an idiot. Have we finished laughing about it, yet?”  
“Yes, love, yes. Sorry. What about a kiss, then? ...mmm. Better?”  
“Always.”

…

“Have you asked yet?”  
“Not yet, love. Thought I’d give them a chance to get back to their flat before pestering them.”  
“John, this is important.”  
“Yes, I heard you the first time. You’re so keen; you ask.”  
“Yes, I’m keen, but I’m also horrid. You ask.”  
“You’re not horrid.”  
“Of course I’m horrid. That’s what dinner was about, wasn’t it? Sorry I’m horrid.”  
“Dinner was about finally having met our lovely neighbours after living next door to them for years and years.”  
“Years and years is an exaggeration.”  
“No, if it’s more than four years, it can be rightly called years and years. Because two years is years and two more is also years. Years and years.”  
“Oh good lord, you’re trying to bore me to death. Never mind that, John! Ask! Please.”  
“All right all right. Keep your hair on.”  
“Are you doing it?”  
“You see me doing it!”  
“Have you done it?”  
“Yes, Sherlock! Go and sit over there before you fidget me to death. What are you so obsessed with this cake for anyway?”  
“Flourless chocolate cake, John. It’s witchcraft. I must know how it’s done.”  
“Well, there’s the internet.”  
“No, no. Must go right to the source.”  
“I really don’t think Portia Akram invented-oh hello. That’ll be the reply.”  
“And?”  
“Bakery. Bad luck, Sherlock.”  
“Does she say which?”  
“Vegan bakery on Marylebone Road. Oh quite near here.”  
“Vegan? Hmm.”  
“You’re a vegetarian.”  
“I’m not. Only I don’t eat meat.”  
“Right. Of course. Fine distinctions are what separate us from the animals.”  
“Stop quoting Mycroft at me. Can we go there tomorrow?”  
“Sure, love. Of course we can.”


	399. Chapter 399

Hullo love,  
Don’t think I didn’t notice how practised that ‘W’ was.  
Yours,  
John

 

John,  
Sherlock Watson Sherlock Watson Sherlock Watson Sherlock Watson Sherlock Watson.  
S

 

John,  
I am addicted to your name. I love to have it in my mouth. Have you noticed?  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I love to have my name in your mouth as well. Best sound in the world.  
Yours,  
John

...

John’s sat on the sofa, holding a book loose in his hand. His finger is holding his place open, but he’s looking into the middle distance with a half-smile on. So far as I’m concerned, that constitutes an invitation. Climb over the arm of the sofa and onto the cushion next to him. John smiles at me, drops the book, and raises an arm, which is what I’d hoped he would do. Curl against his side at once, and he drapes his arm over my shoulder. We sort of sigh in unison, and John’s sigh turns into a bit of a giggle (lovely).

Turn my head to sniff his neck (warmth coming off it)(makes my mouth water)(not sure why), and John leans in obligingly, perhaps supposing that I’m about to spill a secret into his ear. It does look just the spot. Slightly pink and appealing, and I want to put my mouth on it. So I do. John’s arm around my shoulder tightens, and his breath hitches just a bit (lovely). Hum quietly at the pleasure of having a bit of John in my mouth, then run my tongue over his earlobe (something so satisfying in that)(the shape? the size? the texture?)(yes). John shivers throughout (lovely). Nuzzle his ear, his jaw, and down his neck, then shift to lay my head in his lap.

John puts one hand in my hair and strokes my chest with the other, “What are you thinking of, gorgeous?”

Shut my eyes before I answer (that word has certain effects on me)(association he’s deliberately encouraged, almost certainly), “You say you love your name in my mouth.”

I know John’s smiling even before he replies, and when he does, I can hear the shape of it in his voice (mostly in his eyes and eyebrows but crooked up on the right and with just a peek of his tongue)(John looks so comfortable with his eagerness sometimes), “Oh god yes. Haven’t I told you before?”

Nudge my head against his hand, and he answers with a little tug of my hair. I hum at that. “Say more about that, please.”

John’s hand tightens in my hair, and he presses his hand lightly against my chest when I shiver, “Seems like you know already what I’m going to say. Clever you.”

“I like for you to tell it to me, John.”

“I know you do, gorgeous.” John’s hand is light in my hair again, and he strokes it gently (tickles) before he continues, “Your voice caught on my name just now, Sherlock. Did you feel it?”

I nod, “Yes, John.”

“Good.” He’s silent a moment, his hand so light in my hair. I hear him swallow and lick his lips (mmmm) “I love the way you say John, when you’ve just been really clever, and you want to be sure I’ve noticed. And I love it when you say, ‘John’ instead of good morning.” John draws a long breath. His torso expands against me, and I press my cheek to his belly. “I love it when you say ‘John’ instead of things like, ‘please’ or ‘I want you.’ That is so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. I love to hear you want me, Sherlock. I love to hear you reach for me. I love to hear you expect me.” John gives my hair a sharp little tug, and I open my eyes and look up into his face. His eyes are dark and his lip is wet, and he’s looking at me with such dazzling regard. “But you know all of that, don’t you? Sherlock?” Hide my face against him (smells lovely)(I’ll put my head under his shirt in a moment)(no, the shirt will come off) until he tugs my hair again, “Don’t you know, Sherlock?” This is a delicious moment. The moment between knowing what’s coming and having it.

The mouthwatering moment. I quite lose myself in it, and John has to pull my hair again (mmm)(quite sharply enough to make my eyes prick)(mmmmmm).

Sigh, shut my eyes, and lean into his hand, “Yes, John.”


	400. Chapter 400

Obligatory Cat Photo  
This is nothing to do with any case, only this photo is the best photo I have ever seen of anything ever. Don’t these two look like such loves? Note the family resemblance. I really enjoy the identical expression of annoyance. They both said something extremely rude to me, just after I got the photo. It’s always been his occasional habit to hold our cat like a baby, but Sherlock’s been carrying Smoke around like that rather a lot since she got out of the flat last week. She’d only gone over the balcony to visit our lovely neighbours, Portia and Jane, but it was a first for us (as far as we know), so we were a bit alarmed. Nice of Smoke to introduce the four of us. It’s good to have such friendly people so nearby. 

Comments (39)

Sherlock Holmes:  
You delight in discrediting me. Also I believe I have asked you before not to imply that I am the begetter of any cats.

 

John Watson:  
I'm not discrediting you! If anything, I've earned you some credit with cat fanciers. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I can't believe you've just called me a cat fancier, John Watson. And on my own blog. Shocking. 

 

John Watson:  
This isn't your blog; it's mine. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Well, it's about me, so it's mine. 

 

John Watson:  
I'm going to have to remember that little fallacy. Could come in very useful. Anyway, you've got your own blog you've been neglecting for the last thirty months.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I'm not posting again until it's recognised by the queen. Fair's fair. Anyway I made a post there two years ago about the differences in impressions left on a blotter between a fountain pen and a biro, after you deleted it from here, you plebeian. 

 

Portia:  
Goodness! Marie told us we were about to become Internet famous, and here we are up in lights! Hello Watsons! Look at the two of you! Are you always like this?

 

Molly Hooper:  
Oh the Watsons are usually much worse. Have you heard any of their pet names yet? Apart from plebeian, of course. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Sherlock Watson *is* a pet name. And I haven't got any others. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
That's a laugh.

 

John Watson:  
Yeah, I don't know who you think you're fooling, Montresor. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Shut up, Fortunato. I'm not the only one with pet names to reveal.

 

Molly Hooper:  
As we’re on the subject of good photos, I've got one to show you. 

 

John Watson:  
Oh! Fantastic! Can't wait to see it. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
And you accuse me of undue innuendo. 

 

G Lestrade:  
Watch it. 

 

Molly Hooper:  
If he needs to watch it, I'll tell him to watch it, thanks. Watch it, Watson. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Sorry. 

 

G Lestrade:  
Sorry. 

 

TMVHP:  
You're changing your name?

 

John Watson:  
I've got an idea. What if you bugger off and mind your own business?

 

Mrs Hudson:  
Love is in the air! you're all so sweet! 

 

John Watson:  
Thanks, Mrs H!

 

Portia:  
Thank you, Martha! Things move so quickly around here! @Molly Hooper yes, we have heard their pet names, actually. They've been in the habit of leaving the window open. Probably not so much anymore, I reckon! ;)

 

John Watson:  
Ha, sorry. We get a bit shouty around here sometimes. Some of us are quite excitable. We'll try and keep it down. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
*comment deleted*

 

John Watson:  
Sherlock! Too much information! Anyway, that isn't what she meant.

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
*comment deleted* 

 

John Watson:  
Stop it!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Spoilsport. 

 

John Watson:  
Anyway, it isn't a competition. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
It could be. 

 

John Watson:  
It really couldn't. 

 

Portia:  
Is that a challenge?

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Absolutely!

 

John Watson:  
No, it isn't!

 

Portia:  
You're on!

 

Sherlock Holmes:  
John is giving me a look. Apparently it's time to shut the windows.


	401. Chapter 401

"It looks like you."  
"It doesn't!"  
"It does. It's got your nose and your chin."  
"It's hardly got a nose and chin at all. The Blob looks like a blob."  
"Blobby though the Blob may be, it somehow looks just like its mummy."  
"Firstly you are not allowed to call me Mummy-"  
"I didn't call you Mummy, I referred to you as its mummy."  
"Stop interrupting me."  
"I beg your pardon."  
"Shhh. Second, I know you're only trying to annoy me to cover up the fact that you've gone all squishy and think you may cry."  
"Your imagination is running away with you again, Molly."  
"It isn't. You can't fool me."  
"I can, and I do. Is it the done thing to weep over photographic evidence of the existence of other people's children? Would you like me to pretend?"  
"Whenever you start talking like Mr Darcy, I know it's because your emotions are all turmoil-y."  
"Ah, Molly. What an interesting projection. You must live a very colourful inner life."  
"Just like you."  
"Birds of a feather. What are you going to call it?"  
"Not telling."  
"Haven't decided, more like."  
"Either way, it isn't anything to do with you, is it?"  
"Hmmm."  
"Hmmm what?"  
"If you hold the photo like so, it rather looks like Greg, actually. See, here's the nose, the eyebrows, chin, ear."  
"That's upside down. The head is here. That's not an ear; that's the bum. And that bit's amniotic fluid."  
"I know, but it still looks like Greg."  
"It's not a clump of clouds! You're not meant to just see what you can see."  
"You're the one who calls it The Blob. I'm only trying to be polite and take an interest in your. Errrr. Womb?"  
"Ergh, don't say womb."  
"Your handicrafts, then."  
"My foetus is not a drawing for you to stick to the fridge!"  
"Oh, you are impossible to please!"  
"Well. I am having you on a bit."  
"I know. I'm letting you. Because I'm a good friend."

...

"Your wife has taken the liberty of going to sleep on my sofa. Please come and collect her, in case I'd like to sit down."  
"Actually, she's my-"  
"Technicality."  
"Is Detective Technicality picking me up on a technicality?"  
"Only I'm allowed technicalities; you're not allowed technicalities."  
"Yeah? According to who?"  
"'According to whom,' Greg."  
"You sound like your brother."  
"Bite your tongue!"  
"I will not."  
"Isn't he too polite to correct other people's grammar?"  
"Nope."  
"Hmm. I may have to stop doing it, then."  
"Well he wasn't last week, when he told me that I sound ridiculous trying to avoid ending a sentence in a preposition. But maybe he's changed his mind since then."  
"Let us hope and pray."  
"Right. Well, I'll see you in a bit."  
"Oh and John insists I invite the pair of you to stay for dinner. It's a soup. Thing. He's been cooking lately; can't think why. Not half bad at it, though."  
"Oh, thanks. Yeah, we'd like that. Should I bring anything?"  
"Bring anything?"  
"Like a bottle of something?"  
"From your office? No, it's probably one of the ones I've poisoned. Bring your appetite and your winning smile. And perhaps a wheelbarrow to tote away your fiancée."

...

“I suppose we want to sort out a wedding present fairly soon, love.”  
“Ergh presents.”  
“Well, they’re our best friends, and they’re getting married, and we should give them something nice.”  
“Like what?”  
“Ha, actually. I’m not really sure. I don’t do this sort of thing much.”  
“Hang on. I’ll look it up on my phone. Ah. All right. ‘Fifty Best Wedding Gifts.’ That should be a start, anyway. Hmm.”  
“Anything good?”  
“His and hers mugs. His and hers towels. His and hers dressing gowns. This is peculiar. Isn’t it? Do people really have these things, John? Do normal people become extremely possessive of their mugs and dressing gowns after marriage?”  
“How did I wind up as the normal people expert?”  
“Why are you suddenly pretending that you haven’t styled yourself that way since we met?”  
“Fooled you, I suppose."  
"Never."  
"Ha. I'll let that one go. What else is on the list?”  
“Wine, tea things, spice rack. Oooh, this spins actually; that’s convenient. I’m going to get one to keep my samples in.”  
“Sherlock. Focus.”  
“Yes, all right. Cheese boards, pizza stones, lots of tat with the word ‘Love’ on. And. I don’t even know what this is. It’s just. Jars with corks. Do you need that to be married? Is it bad we’ve not got a series of corked jars, John? Does it stop your husband being so sarcastic all the time? Is it like a superstition? Salt to keep away fairies, corks to stop up a smart mouth?”  
“You adore me.”  
“I know. I’ve got horrible taste.”


	402. Chapter 402

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by a suggestion from AugustaAugusta18. Thank you!

Wake with a funny sense of disorientation. John is not where he should be (around me)(or under me)(I’m sure I’m not choosy) and before the indignation has a chance to congeal in my mind, there’s a flush from the bathroom and John emerges naked a moment later. He pauses to stretch, backlit by the light from the window and looking down at me with a bleary smile.

Can’t decide if I more want to gaze raptly at him or to pull him to me and curl round him and bury my face in his warmest crevice. He’s beautiful (always!), so beautiful but this moment is one I’d like to paint into my mind palace (delicious when they come on me suddenly)(little spark of delight and recognition like a child finding a pound coin in the street)(delicious delicious). John is exquisite backlit.

The light catches on the blonde hair on his arms and chest and shoulders that’s all but invisible otherwise, setting it aglow and lending him a surprisingly apropos ethereality.  
The room is cold (his nipples are erect) and John is beautiful under duvets and in shadows as well, “John.” His smile broadens. “Come back to bed, and let me warm you.”

“Is that what they’re calling it?” he rasps (that sweet voice)(I wish it were a thing I could put into my mouth)(will settle for any of the rest of him)(I say settle…).

“Come here at once. Insolent.” I pull John to me as soon as he’s in reach, and he lays his head against my chest with a little hum of pleasure. As expected his skin is cool, but there are puffs of his sleep-warm smell coming off the top of his head. I nose his hair, and he strokes my chest, and we are silent. This is the sort of thing that falls between dreaming and waking and we may doze or we may not before John says rather sheepishly, as if continuing a the thread of an ongoing conversation, "I'm the most awful old sop about you, you know."

"Mmm oh yes. It's quite embarrassing."

John laughs a wheezy giggle that I can feel humming in my chest and lays a kiss near my breastbone. "So, lovely."

"John."

My John is very ready to be pleased with me. Just the sound of his name in my mouth makes him smile again. "So. Sherlock Watson. Wedding anniversary number two coming up.”

“Six weeks off,” I agree.

“Are we making the opera a tradition?”

“Mmm, I’ve some notions under consideration.”

“Notions, eh?” John is looking up at me through his eyelashes (coquettish, I believe is the word)(somewhat unusual to want to kiss eyelashes, surely?).

“Notions. And I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, being awake so long and not even hinting at a kiss good morning.” John grins and tips his chin up to offer me his mouth. Take full advantage (mmm).

“Nice deflection,” he says when I’m well kissed. “You aren’t going to tell me about your notions, then?”

“Oh I’m feeling generous. You may have a guess. Of course I refuse to confirm or deny, but you’ll enjoy trying to decide what my expressions mean.”

John laughs and kisses me again, then falls silent to consider. “Actually lovely, if you want to surprise me, do. I quite like it.”

“Yes, I know.” Can’t decide whether I like surprising him better than I like him surprising me (need both!)(have actually always had both, right from the first time in the lab)(he started it, then I pursued him, and there we’ve gone since like years of tag).

John makes a little sigh and falls silent again, stroking my chest. Am not exactly sleepy, but I do feel rather as if I may drift away. Extremely relaxed. John’s voice brings me back to myself. “Six weeks off,” he murmurs. “That’d have been a bit before you proposed.” He looks up at me and smiles (lovely), “Did you know, then?” Here is John’s radiant affection, his smile shining on my face, his hand light and fond on my chest. I feel quite bashful to answer.

Lower my head to nose his hair (that bolstering smell) and nod. “Yes, John. I did.”


	403. Chapter 403

Why aren't you here?  
-SH

 

Where's here?  
~Molly~

 

The lab, of course! I need lungs, and your substitute has been very unsympathetic.  
-SH

 

You know I don't actually live there.  
~Molly~

 

Nor do I, yet here I am.  
-SH

 

Bully for you.  
~Molly~

 

Are you having fun being evasive?  
-SH

 

Rather.  
~Molly~

 

Well I need you, so stop not being here.  
-SH

 

Heartwarming. You ought to put that in your speech.  
~Molly~

 

In my what?  
-SH

 

Can we skip the bit where I remind you that I already asked you and the bit where I reconvince you and jump right to the bit where you say okay?  
~Molly~

 

Reconvince isn't a word.  
-SH

 

That's a yes, then?  
~Molly~

 

In the interest of saving time.  
-SH

 

Lovely! You're an excellent friend, accolades in the post, etc, etc.  
~Molly~

 

You're a dreadful friend. Remonstrances in the post. Etc etc.  
-SH

 

I have another request.  
~Molly~

 

Imagine my surprise.  
-SH

 

I've been trying to teach Greg the box step you showed me, but he keeps muddling me when he gets it wrong. Could you help us?  
~Molly~

 

So long as he promises not to tread on my toes.John's just polished my shoes.  
-SH

 

Magnificent. Unheard of generosity, unparalleled grace etc etc.  
~Molly~

 

You're lucky I'm so fond of you, or this pathetically transparent flattery would have no effect on me.  
-SH

 

I think about that every day.  
~Molly~

 

And don't think I've forgotten about my lungs.  
-SH

 

You don't need to remember them; breathing is a reflex.  
~Molly~

 

Very droll.  
-SH

…

 

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, frowning at me and shaking my arm impatiently. "What's the matter with you, Greg?"

"Nothing's the matter with me!" I answered a little louder than I'd meant to.

From his chair, John laughed. I looked over at him, and Sherlock glared. "Sorry," John said. "Only it's fun to hear him have this conversation with other people. Don't mind me."

Sherlock turned his back on John pointedly and fixed his attention on me, "Now you can do it in the mirror; why can't you do it facing me?"

"It's you! You're too tall to lead."

"Rubbish," Sherlock answered. "John can lead me, and he's shorter than you are."

"Well John's special, isn't he?"

"Ta very much, but leave me out of this, if you don't mind," John put in. "You're lucky I let you dance with my husband at all."

"I don't particularly want to dance with your husband, to be honest," I said, stepping back from Sherlock and peering round him at John. "Can't I try it with you? You know how, don't you? And you're the same height as Molly. And you don't glare at me like you might nut me, if I don't learn to waltz."

"You don't know that for a fact," Sherlock said, stepping in front of me to block John from my line of vision. "He's got a horrible temper. And anyway, I've hired out all my," he paused to sneer at my word choice, "nutting to John. Must keep my hands nice, as I’m a musician."

"Surgeon trumps musician," John called.

Sherlock snorted but paid no more notice to what John’d said. "Perhaps you should summon the missus, if you need conditions to be just so before you can apply your mind something so simple."

“No, the point of the lessons is that the missus can’t do them. Anyway, she’s doing a dress fitting at the moment.” Something occurred to me, and I grinned, “If you can’t manage them either, I suppose I might ask Mycroft.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “If you’re trying to annoy me out of helping you, you’re going the right way for it!”

“Right because you’re being so helpful now.”

“All right!” John said, getting up from his chair and coming to shake his head at us, hands on hips. “That’s enough bickering, you two. Yes, especially you, Sherlock. What did the pair of you do before you had me around to stop you fighting all the time?”

“More flirting, if you can imagine,” Sherlock answered, looking past me at John and rolling his eyes. “It was terribly embarrassing.”

“I do not flirt with you!”

“Oh Greg,” Sherlock said with affected pity, patting my arm. John tried bravely to keep up his stern face, but he burst out laughing at that.

“John, do I flirt with him?”

John backed away, his hands held up, “You were leaving me out of it,” he said.

“Aren’t you two meant to be nice to me, now I’m getting married?” I said. “There’s a law, I think.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, grinning. “What am I, if not law-abiding? There, there now. Let’s start over. Do the music, will you, John?” He pointed at their sound system, and John switched it on with the remote. “Thank you. Now. Stand up straight, right hand here on my back, and take my left....good. Weight on your right foot, step forward with your...good. Yes, you do remember. There now. You aren’t entirely unteachable, are you?”


	404. Chapter 404

My John is close, so close I know, to coming inside of me. I know from the tension in his sweat-slick side under my palm. From the increasingly uneven rhythm of his hips rocking up to mine, from the scraping of his fingertips on my scalp as his hand tightens in the hair on the back of my head. His mouth on mine is wet and gasping and not quite kissing. Catch his lower lip between my teeth, and he grunts, gasps, draws back.

“Sher-ah!” Think for a moment that he’s coming, but he leans back and braces himself against the headboard, “Can’t breathe!”

I freeze. “Red?”

John nods, shuts his eyes. I reach behind myself and hold onto him to keep the condom on as I lift slowly off of him.

Kneel facing John on the bed. He’s breathing too hard and too fast. “All right? Does your chest hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No!” John reaches out for my hand (tuck mine into his at once) and forces a little laugh, “It’s nothing,” he says. “Bit overstimulated is all. Just. Need a moment.” Squeeze his hand lightly, and he squeezes back, his eyes still shut.

“All right?” I ask again. John nods. “Back in a tic, then. Taking steps against sheet slime.”

“Yeah,” he covers his eyes with the crook of his arm. I slide off the bed and pop into the bathroom to clean myself up.

Emerge a few minutes later with a warm towel and resume my spot next to John on the bed. “May I?” I ask, holding out the towel.

He lowers his arm from his face, “I can do it.”

“I don’t mind. If you don’t,” I add quickly.

“Thanks,” he says, and he looks like he means it. There’s a dot of blood on his bottom lip. I must have broken the skin with my teeth when he pulled away from me.

Dab that away with a tissue first, “Sorry about that.”

John’s tongue comes out to investigate (mmm)(no! Calm down). “It’s nothing,” he says. Lean in and kiss his chin. He smiles (feel it, can’t see it) and lifts his face to catch me on the lips.

When John has got me properly kissed, I turn my attention back to cleaning him up. There’s a smear of (my) dried pre-come on his belly. Sponge it away and drop a little kiss above his navel. John sighs (lovely). He’s already peeled off the condom, and there’s a bit of lint clinging to him where he tried to tidy himself up with a tissue. Wipe him clean as gently as I can, then throw the towel at my bedside table (tip over my water glass)(no matter as it was empty).

“Sorry,” John says, and I almost want to scold him for his sheepishness. No point in that, of course.

Shake my head, “Nothing to apologise for, John.”

“I could. Erm…” he trails off and glances at my cock, which is obediently soft and disinterested.

Swallow a smile. “No, thank you. Not at the moment.” Stretch out next to him on my side.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, John. Quite sure. But erm. I’d like to hold you. If that’s all right.”

John’s mouth pulls right, and he nods, “Yeah. Please.” I give him a kiss, and he turns onto his side, his back to me. I curl up to him, not very close at first, but he reaches back and pulls my arm round his waist and tips his head back toward mine, until I hook my chin over his shoulder. We both shift a bit until we’re slotted together just so, and John makes a little satisfied sound, something between a grunt and a sigh. “Good,” he says under his breath. I kiss the back of his neck, and he sighs. Lovely. Under my hand, John’s belly rises with his breath several times before he speaks again, “I started to feel a bit claustrophobic is all,” he says. “It wasn’t anything to do with you.”

“All right.” Hesitate a moment. “You don’t have to explain, John.”

“I know,” he says. “I will when I can, though. It’s a relief to be able to. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course,” kiss the back of his head and John grunts with satisfaction.

“Sorry to leave you high and dry though,” he said.

“Oh it’s all right,” I nose his hair (evergreen)(lovely). “You’re a rubbish shag anyway.”

John laughs. “You’ll be singing a different tune tomorrow.”

“Oh you think so, do you?”

“Yes, I do think so.”

“Presumptuous.” Trying to sound stern, but it’s difficult to affect sternness with John’s sweet, wheezy laugh humming in my fingers and my ears and my chest (lovely)

“Mmm oh yes. I’m going to fuck you in the morning, when you wake up, and you’re still hoarse from sleeping. You blush so prettily when your voice breaks over my name. Did you know that, lovely?” He raises my hand and kisses my fingertips as he waits for me to answer.

It takes a moment, “No, John.”

John laughs at the rasp in my voice and kisses my palm before he replies, “Well gorgeous. I’ll show you.”


	405. Chapter 405

"John? Are you awake, John?"  
"I'm awake, lovely."  
"John?"  
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm here. What is it?"  
"If you weren't all right, you would tell me. Wouldn't you? John?"  
"Yes, love. Of course I would."  
"Rule one, John."  
"I would tell you, Sherlock."  
"John?"  
"I'm fine, lovely. It was just a. Sticky bit."  
"Are you sure?"  
"I promise. Nothing to worry about, love. Just felt a bit funny for a moment. Bit overstimulated. I'm okay now."  
"All right."  
“Do you believe me, Sherlock?”  
“I believe you.”

...

Sherlock squirmed in his chair, leaning one way, then the other, trying to find his seat.

“Comfy?” I asked with a grin. Sherlock snorted and slumped against me, laying his head on my shoulder. “None of that,” I said, shrugging to budge him off me. “That’s my coffee arm.” Sherlock grunted and otherwise ignored me. I half-turned to speak into his ear, lowering my voice, “I need you to sit up for me now, gorgeous.” That worked a treat.

Sherlock sat up at once, then shot me a look that didn’t quite hide the smile he was trying to suppress. “I can’t believe you’re taking advantage of me in this state. And after dragging me out of the house when I should be sleeping off the afterglow. You’re a dreadful husband.”

“I told you before we started that you wouldn’t have time to go back to sleep.”

“There’s no such thing as before we started, John. We’ve been in the middle for years, now. We’ve always been in the middle. We began in the middle.”

“Debatable,” I answered. “And you know what I mean cleverboots. Anyway, we’re out of literally everything. There wasn’t even any coffee. And if we’re going to have a train journey, you need a good breakfast. Or you get a headache, and you’re all grumpy and snippy when we get there. And we need to go back to the flat for the bags and the gift before we get the train. But you can sleep off the afterglow on the train, love.”

“Preposterous suggestion,” Sherlock huffed and leaned on his elbows. “The afterglow will have dissipated after all this logistical scurrying, John. Logistics are hell on ephemera.”

“True. Eat your toast.”

Sherlock obliged and continued through a mouthful, “Anyway I never sleep on trains.”

“You always sleep on trains.”

He set down his toast and glared, “I do not!”

“It’s why we never get the tube. You go to sleep.”

Sherlock tossed his head, “We never get the tube because the tube is filthy.”

I grinned, “I think I feel another game of Sherlock is So Posh coming on.”

“Oh for the love of god, John!”

“Mmmm,” I slid one hand down his back, and he arched into it like a cat. “Mind your afterglow, Sherlock. You’re dissipating it.”

“You’re dissipating it, John. With your blather and your nonsense. You’re extremely unsympathetic.”

“I’m terrifically sympathetic, Sherlock.” Sherlock harumphed. “Be fair, now. Who’s more sympathetic than I am? I’ll even help you to recover your afterglow, love. I’ll stoke it back up for you. Mmm?”

“Oh? Stoke it up?” Sherlock arched against my hand again and shut his eyes, “That does sound sympathetic.”


	406. Chapter 406

"What are you writing?"  
"Speech."  
"What? Peach what?"  
"SSS. Peech, John. Speech. As chief bridesmaid, I'm to give a speech. A toast, rather."  
"You aren't actually chief bridesmaid."  
"I am."  
"Is there some frilly yellow dress I'm not aware of stashed in our luggage, then?"  
"Of course not. You know what I'm wearing, John. Though if there were a frilly yellow dress in our luggage, I would carry it off with aplomb."  
"Too right you would, love."  
"Yellow looks nice with my eyes."  
"Ha yes, so it does, lovely."  
"It makes them look greener."  
"Only you have to mind the shade because I think it might drain you, if it were too pale."  
"I have a delicate complexion."  
"So you do. Anyway. How's the speech coming?"  
"Well I was writing and then you started blathering in my ear, and now we're talking about which shade of yellow best suits me. You're only getting away with it because I'm so fond of you."  
"I'm a lucky, lucky man."  
"Indeed."  
"You've left your speeching to the last minute, haven't you?"  
"Just waiting for the right words to occur."  
"Hopefully before the reception."  
"Well if I rush myself, I may use hideous turns of phrase like 'speeching.'"  
"I'll leave you to it, then."  
"Do."

...

I depend on seeing you tomorrow.   
-SH

 

You will. Much the way you did not see me at your own wedding.   
-M 

 

I’m rather surprised to see you make anything at all of this.   
-M

 

Though I suppose you go in for this sort of thing now.   
-M

 

I take as keen an interest as is welcome in the affairs of my nearest associates.   
-SH 

We have that in common.   
-M

 

Indeed.   
-SH 

...

Could you do something for me?  
~Molly~

 

Consider it done.   
-SH 

 

You don’t even know what it is yet.   
~Molly~

 

Technicality.   
-SH 

 

I’m in the bride’s room. It’s near the nursery. Come and find me?  
~Molly~

 

I’m on my way.   
-SH


	407. Chapter 407

Characteristically, Sherlock taps on my door about thirty seconds after I get his last text.

“Come in.”

He enters and stands just inside the doorway, his eyes bouncing around the room as if I’ve called him in to investigate a crime scene. But his gaze lands on me after a moment, and he smiles. “You look very nice,” he says.

The moderation of the compliment makes me laugh, “Thanks.” Sherlock nods and looks expectantly at me, but I’m not sure how to say what I’m thinking. I steer him to the mirror, then get the little box with his boutonniere from the dressing table and make rather a meal of pinning it to his lapel while I gather my thoughts.

"You wouldn't have been nervous," I say. "When you got married. You weren't, were you?"

Sherlock cocks his head, "Not after he accepted."

"But you two. You did it in private."

Sherlock smiles rather dreamily and nods once, "Yes, as privately as possible."

Sigh and tug his boutonniere a bit to the right. "I wish we'd done it with just the four of us. Are there loads of people out there? Have you been in? Does it seem like loads?"

Sherlock pats my arm "You rather get tunnel vision when it comes to the moment, honestly. It'll be fine. You'll hardly notice the others."

I nod, open my mouth, shut it, then open it again. "Erm. Do you, er. Could you." Sigh. "Could you walk in with me? Only I know I'll trip or faint or blub or something completely stupid. And. Would you mind?" I'm probably going red, so I try not to glance in the mirror and make it worse. Stare fixedly at my fingers on his jacket, but he makes a funny little sigh when I finish speaking, and I look up at that.

"Are you asking me to walk you down the aisle?" His face has gone a bit funny. Sort of. Extra blinky.

"Yes. If you. If you don't mind. I know it's last minute, but. Is that okay?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. If you want me, certainly I will. I didn't know I was. Comforting."

Laugh aloud at that, then lean in and kiss him on the cheek, “Thanks.”

Sherlock gives me a look so pleased and satisfied that it borders on smug before glancing down at his watch. “Nearly the time for it. Ready?” I nod and pick up my bouquet.

Sherlock opens the door and peeps out into the corridor to check it’s clear, then turns back to me and offers his elbow. I take it, and we step out into the corridor. Sherlock pats the arm linked through his with his free hand, as we approach the open doors of the sanctuary.

Things go quite clear and calm in my head as soon as we enter it, though. The music starts up, and my nerves seem so silly. Everyone is looking at me, but so is Greg. With brimming eyes, but smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen before. In a minute I’ll be hand in hand with Greg. In another minute, I’ll be his wife. I walk toward his smile, and it’s the easiest thing in the world.

...

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, honoured guests...Excuse me, please. If you all could shut up now. I’ve, thank you, yes. I’m doing the thing now. That’s why I’m standing up like this. Thank you. Ahem.

In the many years I have known Molly and Greg, they have gone from valuable, respected colleagues, to dear and devoted friends. It is my privilege therefore to be the first to congratulate the newlyweds on the occasion of their union and the expansion of families that are stronger and better for having joined together. With confidence that I speak for my husband as well as for myself, I include my own family as one of the beneficiaries of this fortification.

Despite the warmth and longevity of my connection with both Greg and Molly, I have little to say on the subject of their relationship. A fact for which they are assuredly grateful. I am not the sort of person one appeals to for assistance in merry-making. Rather I believe I am generally considered a narrow-minded cynic, whose views on romance and relationships are, if not entirely irrelevant are certainly deservedly unwanted. I have no turn for the romantic, the inspirational, or the humorous.

My remarks on love in general, I’m sure, will be so elementary as to be almost insulting. I will present them to you anyway. I hope you will be patient with me. Any wisdom I have on the subject is hard-won through the tutelage of my very excellent husband and our wonderful mutual friends sitting here beside me.

What I know can be reduced to this: be ready to accept happiness, when it shows itself. If you are lucky enough to know happiness when you see it, trust it. Love and joy and peace and family are for us all, though we have none of us exactly earned them. Waste as little time as possible with incredulous self-abasement. Take your blissful moments as you find them.

And now, pray be upstanding and join me in raising our glasses to toast the happy couple. Our shining example du jour, to Greg and Molly!”


	408. Chapter 408

"Well well well. Here you are. How long it’s been, brother.”  
“I told you I’d be here.”  
“So you did. And look at you. You look almost. Pleased."  
"I'm very pleased."  
"They do make a handsome couple, don't they?"  
"Yes, she suits him. They suit each other."  
"I agree."  
"She's a bit like you, isn't she, Sherlock?"  
"Ye-es. Yes. In some ways."  
"That must be why I've. Taken to her."  
"Goodness, that's warm. How you flatter me."  
"I used to wonder if you and Greg--then again that was before I ever saw you with John."  
"Mycroft!"  
"As I say, that was before I ever saw you with John."  
"I suppose that's a sort of compliment."  
"A neutral observation."  
"Well at least you're allowing that I may not have made a hideous mistake in marrying him."  
"Is that what you think?"  
"Isn't that what you think?"  
"Forgive me, dear brother, but if I were of that opinion, I would never have allowed it to become an issue."  
"Your arrogance is as amusing as it is infuriating."  
"I knew you'd say that."  
"Good lord, Mycroft. Was that a joke?"  
"Indulge me. I've been at the punch."  
"Apparently so. I'll help you to some more and take full advantage."  
"Do. I'm rather enjoying it."  
"Ah, Mycroft?"  
"Mm."  
"You don't think I've made a hideous mistake."  
"No. John is an excellent man. I've always thought so."  
"But you don't approve."  
"Sherlock, I told you once that all hearts are broken."  
"He isn't-"  
"There isn't an ounce of malice in him. I know that. Be quiet, and listen to me."  
"Excuse me."  
"I have seen you together and separated and together again. I prefer you together; excuse my frankness."  
"No offense taken."  
"Your mutual understanding does not imbue either of you with invincibility of mind, body, or spirit."  
"I'm not going to break him, Mycroft."  
"Mind you don't break yourself either."  
"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean."  
"You may be very unhappy without him, but you are whole without him. Ah. I see by your face that we have reached the sticking point in the conversation. I propose we change the subject."  
"Do you ever think you might? Some day?"  
"I don't."  
"Never?"  
"Never been inclined."  
"Never?"  
"Sherlock you might just as well ask a fish if it wouldn't like to come in out of the rain."  
"You really have been into the punch."  
"I know you know what I mean."  
"That's what I thought about myself, you know."  
"Yes, I know. But I'm much cleverer than you are, and I'm right where you were wrong. I'm a fish. You're not."  
"You’re certainly drinking like one."  
"Ah, how I've missed our sparkling repartee."  
"You might have said all of this before, you know."  
"To be honest, I had no idea your understanding was so poor. But you've always lost your head over that soldier fellow."  
"Hmph. You're a really rubbish older brother."  
"Yes, I know. I'm bored of you, now. Run along and dance with your husband."

...

Sherlock swept up to me and eagerly watched me swallow down my last mouthful of cake before making me a little bow and offering his elbow, “May I?”

I licked my lips and grinned up at him, “I thought you’d never ask.” I stood and took his elbow, and Sherlock gave me a little kiss on the cheek before leading me out to the floor. “Dancing isn’t your favourite thing, I believe I’ve heard,” I reminded him, settling my hand on his waist.

Sherlock smiled and squeezed my other hand, “Most of my favourite things involve touching you, John. I relish each opportunity.”

“You didn’t want to at cousin Mary’s wedding,” I reminded him.

Sherlock’s face went quite serious under his smile. “Forgive me, John. I rather thought at the time that you’d be embarrassed and regretful if we indulged in front of your family.”

I missed a step pulling him a bit closer, “I’m never embarrassed of you, lovely.”

“I know,” Sherlock squeezed my hand again. “It was ungenerous of me. I should have known you better.”

“Now you know.”

“Now I know.” Sherlock bent his head to kiss me. “Yes.”

“I’m so proud of you, Sherlock. So proud.”

He kissed me again, “So am I, of you.” We were quiet a moment. I savoured the warmth of his side under my hand and his breath whispering past my ear. When the song changed, it seemed particularly apropos, and I hummed along with the first few seconds.

To my surprise, when the lyrics started up, Sherlock pulled me a bit closer, rested his head against mine, and began to murmur along with the music, “‘Wise men say only fools rush in...’” My box step was turning to mush, but we settled into a shuffling little sway, Sherlock holding me tightly and singing low into my hair. And it was a good job I didn’t have to look where I was going, because my vision went damp and blurry for a bit.

“I didn’t know you knew that song, lovely,” I said when it had ended.

“Oh John, everyone knows Elvis. Isn’t there a bylaw?” He stroked my hand with his thumb.

“Of course you know this means I’ll be after you to sing Elvis to me, lovely.”

Sherlock kissed me, “Be careful what you wish for.”

I laughed and begin to well up again, “Here now,” I said with a sniff. “Look at this. You really do turn me into the most awful old sop, Sherlock.”

“I’m delighted to hear it, John.” He kissed my hand. “It’s been my life’s work.”


	409. Chapter 409

On the train home, Sherlock was nodding off on my shoulder and making brave attempts to pretend he wasn't by periodically murmuring nonsense into my ear. He had the fingers of his left hand laced with the fingers of my right, and from time to time he'd remember suddenly that he was definitely not asleep and squeeze my fingers between his or stroke his thumb against my palm. It was all quite soporific, to be honest. I was nearly asleep myself.

"Mmjohn. All our friends are turning into couples."

"Ha, you mean both of our friends have turned into a couple."

"And there are the married ones next door. Portia and Jane," he reminded me, digging his thumb into the back of my hand.

I pinched him, "They haven't turned into a couple. They've been together longer than we have. Lots longer."

"Shhh John," Sherlock returned the pinch with interest. "We agreed that we've always been a couple. We've been together since before we were born."

"Mmmm the train makes you poetic as well as sleepy, love." Sherlock huffed indignantly but didn't bother with a retort. Probably because he was too busy giggling at me when I shuddered and rubbed away the wet tickle he'd blown into my ear. “So Sherlock.”

“John,” he hummed back so low that I could feel it buzz against me, even through the vibrations of the train.

I lowered my voice in return, “Sherlock.” He nodded, inviting me to continue. “Have you given any more thought to your notions?”

“My notions, John?”

“About our anniversary.”

“Ahh,” Sherlock laughed his wicked little laugh. “Those notions. Yes, lots of thought, John. Lots and lots. Moving forward with my plans, in fact. Few fiddly bits still to nail down, but. Coming along on schedule.”

“Not the opera, then?”

“If you’ll refer to your records, I believe you’ll find that I am declining to confirm or deny details at this juncture.”

“Wasn’t that a few junctures ago? Haven’t we got to a new juncture?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Same juncture, John. Be patient. All will be revealed in time.”

“You really get off on being mysterious, don’t you?” He only laughed in answer. “Well, I’ll take that as a resounding ‘Obviously, John!’” Sherlock laughed again. “Just you wait until next year, Mr Clever. I’m going to be twice as mysterious.”

“Mmm sorry, John. Proposing husband’s option to choose anniversary activities.”

“So I never get to plan it?!”

“Oh, you want to plan it, do you? Mmm what would you have us do, John? No, don’t reply. Let me deduce. Tempting to say dancing. You quite enjoyed that, but that’s sort of my thing, isn’t it? Same with the opera. You’d want something we’ve not quite done. Want to leave your mark. Am I warm? Don’t answer. Let’s think. Ahhh. I know.” He lowered his voice a bit more, leaning in so that his mouth was nearly against my ear. “You’d want to travel, wouldn’t you? Want me all to yourself? Mmm? Yes, you love that, don’t you? Love to keep me to yourself. You’d whisk me away to someplace sunny we’ve never been before. Introduce me to the locals as Sherlock Watson. Come home blonder and browner than you’ve been in years, with your backside sunburnt from fucking me on some secluded beach. Not that you don’t know an oncoming sunburn when you feel it, of course, but you never can resist taking your time when you have me where you want me, can you John?”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock laughed a laugh that was more of a moan. “Well, John? Am I warm?”

“You’re a fucking menace is what you are, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I was hoping you’d say something like that, Fortunato.”

“Right, well Montresor, when I get you home, I’m going to show you a thing or two about taking my time.”

Sherlock sighed through his nose and dropped his hand into my lap to run his thumb lightly along the edge of the erection growing in my trousers. I tried not to squirm, but I probably did a bit. “Think of all those new freckles,” his breath was hot and damp against my ear. “On your back and shoulders. On your thighs. On your neck. Your ears. Perhaps in the bends of your knees. I would taste each one, John.” He sighed again. “Mmmmm.”

I (reluctantly) shoved his hand out of my lap. “Not on the train, Sherlock. We’ll be arrested.”

Sherlock laced his fingers in mine again. “Yes, sir.” It is really unfair that he can be polite, obedient, and defiant all in two words.

“And mind you don’t think I don’t know a deflection when I hear one, Watson.”

Sherlock’s laugh had a bright edge of delight in it, “I love it when you call me that, John.”

“Yes, love, I know.”

“I love everything you call me, John.”

“Even when I call you a cock or a smug bastard?”

“Generally well-earned, John. You might even say solicited.”

I grinned, “Sometimes I do say solicited.”

“Well there you are, John.”

“And I love it when you get so excited that you say my name every other word.”

Sherlock nosed my ear, “Yes, John, I know you do.” He squeezed my hand and went quiet again, and though he wasn’t exactly making any noise, I could feel his self-satisfaction humming in him the way you might feel the purr of a cat. “You really did like the dancing, didn’t you, John?” he said after several minutes of smug and sleepy silence. “I’d not have expected that. Mm. Pity. We might have been at it sooner. Then perhaps you’d have had the confidence for the dip.”

I laughed, “I didn’t want to drop you again. It was quite embarrassing enough alone in the flat.”

“Ah well,” Sherlock squeezed my hand again. “Soon perhaps. We’ve all the time in the world to practise it.”


	410. Chapter 410

"Now listen to me, you officious obstructionist. Rack your brains and remember who I am, and what I do. Detective Inspector Lestrade invited me to participate in this investigation before he left on his holiday. I have the right to be here." Draw myself up as I speak and raise my chin (too aggressive too quickly, ineffectual)(ham-handed, out of practise)(John would have managed it far better)(ergh).

The round-faced PC I'm attempting to intimidate flushes but replies undaunted, "Sir, the officer in charge was very explicit that no one is to be admitted without proper identification! Now keep back, please. This is an active crime scene. "

"I tell you I've been invited to participate! It's hardly my fault Lestrade is too disorganised to-" Cut myself off. This is not what John would say (bloody cold season)(I will burn down that surgery, if I have to). "Speak to the officer in charge, then. Go on."

The PC squints at me, then raises his handset to speak into the microphone, "Ma'am, there's a Mr Holmes here trying to enter the scene. Says he's been invited to participate. By DI Lestrade."

After a pause, Sally Donovan's voice crackles back, "Bring him in."

Whisk my elbow away when the PC reaches for it, "All right, Constable. You aren't bringing me into custody."

When we find her, Donovan is standing, arms folded, in front of a closed door. She makes eye contact with the PC and nods at him, "Thanks Butterman." She watches him out of the room before turning to address me. "Where's the rest of you?"

"It's Saturday. John doesn't come on Saturdays."

"His day to be chained up in the attic, eh?"

Little flash of fury, followed by the desire to laugh at the idea of what John would say to that. "I was not aware that the dynamics of my marriage are anything to do with you, Sergeant."

"But my crime scene is something to do with you, is it?"

"I was invited."

Donovan purses her lips, "It isn't a tea party."

"You don't want my help, then? You can get on without it now?"

"It isn't help, it's bullying. The way you do it."

Roll my eyes at that. "Oh for god’s sake!"

"Go and apologise to Butterman, then. And you can have five minutes."

"Butterman? No! What for? Why should I?"

Donovan shakes her head incredulously, "Go and apologise to him for trying to push him around when he was only doing his job. Go on."

I don't budge. "'It's my job' is a stupid reason to do anything."

"No, it isn't!" She's still shaking her head. "If you can't apologise when you've been wrong-"

"I haven't been wrong!"

Donovan carries on talking over me, raising her voice slightly, "-then it isn't about helping, it's about your ego. And I'm not here to mess about with your ego. None of us are. This is serious to us; it isn't a game. It isn't Christmas. We're not pathetic without you; we got on a whole year without you while you were off on your death holiday. And we get on without you when you can't be bothered with us, too. So you're going to be professional, or you're going to piss off. And if you impede my investigation with a tantrum, then you're going to be arrested, aren't you?"

Listen to this speech with mounting surprise and find that by the end of it, my jaw is hanging open. Shut it with a snap, turn on my heel and walk out of the room. Donovan follows.

At the crime scene tape, I find PC Butterman. Clear my throat, "Excuse me, Constable."

Butterman half turns at the sound of my voice.

His eyes slide between me and Donovan behind me. "Yes, sir."

"I apologise for my earlier behaviour. I understand that you were only performing your duty as instructed." March up to him and offer my hand to shake. "I appreciate your. Flexibility."

Butterman glances at Donovan again before shaking my hand. "Yes, sir. I do my best." Nod at him, then turn back to Donovan.

She's grinning. "Not bad. Did it hurt?"

"A bit," I follow her back into the building.

"You get used to it."

"Is that a threat, Sergeant?"

Donovan pauses before replying to give me a very convincing glare, though there's a hint of a smile in the lines around her eyes. "You'd better believe it."


	411. Chapter 411

Wake to the smell of breakfast cooking. Toast. Fried eggs. Mushrooms. Those Linda McCartney sausages John’s mysteriously wild about. He hasn’t put the coffee on yet. There’s a cat at my knees under the bedclothes and another curled against the headboard at the top of my pillow, and this is very picturesque, and I want John to be here with me, and I want to be out there with John. The latter is more easily accomplished, but I reach for my phone to try for the former anyway. Tap out a demanding text to John, and his phone chimes once from his bedside table. Well, that’s that, then. Get out of bed, pull on socks, pyjama bottoms, one of John’s jumpers and my second best dressing gown (cold morning)(cold, fine morning)(John likes these, will steer us toward a walk after breakfast)(lovely).

John is standing at the stove, tending his mushrooms and swaying gently and singing along to some music piped in from the sound system in the sitting room. Music with lyrics is often overstimulating, but I feel rather fond of this man whenever he appears in my flat. His voice has got a sweet sort of rasp to it (reminds me of John, though he’s also got an American accent)(which John is wise enough not to attempt).

I watch my John with delight bubbling in me, threatening to creep up my throat and burst out as laughter. Bite my lips. Fidget. Want to touch him. Want to observe him. They’re the same urge, really. The urge to take him in and know him. Absorb him. I’m supersaturated already, but always eager for more.  
John knows me, though I know I’ve kept silent and his back is to me. He knows me always, and he sets down his spoon and turns to me with a luminous smile that conjures an answering smile from me. We beam at each other for a long moment. I’ve sort of forgotten what you do next. He does that to me sometimes. He dazzles me.  
It's the golden light filling the kitchen, perhaps. Or the tint of my affection, altering my perspective. But his eyes are so green today. So green. Everything about him is vivid this morning. I want to kiss the laugh I can see starting in his throat. I know I am not close enough to actually smell his skin, but I can taste it in my mouth, all the same. He's cut his right index finger (chopping shallots)(sliced, not diced). He's holding it awkwardly aloft, apart from his other fingers. Sequestered. Dot of bright blood on the edge of it. I can taste that, too (have I ever actually had John’s blood in my mouth?)(accidental, inconsequential, undetectable amounts perhaps)(tore his lip on my teeth the other day, didn’t taste it)(don’t think of that now; push it away).

In the interest of removing temptation (John would allow me to taste his blood, if I wanted to)(no questions asked!)(still seems a bit much for half seven in the morning), I tear a sheet off the kitchen roll on my way across the room. John starts up humming again and smiles as he watches me dab away the blood from his fingertip, then squeeze the nick to stop it bleeding completely. When I’m finished, I wad up the soiled sheet and toss it at the bin he’s been putting eggshells and onion skins into.  
John catches my hand as soon as it’s empty again and raises it to his shoulder. Cock my eyebrow inquisitively as he settles his own hand onto my waist.

“This is a waltz,” John says by way of explanation. His voice is still sleep-rough (lovely).

“Ah. So it is.” My voice is rough, too. We clasp our other hands, and still humming, John leads me in little circles round the kitchen. After a moment, he slides his hand past my dressing gown, up under my borrowed jumper. His hand is cool and soft, and his thumb stirs against me in rhythm with the music. I fancy it’s moved by overflow of affection. I empathise. Can see excitement upticking on John’s face; stirs a similar response in me. A hot flicker in my gut. Feel John tensing, holding his breath and ah. Now I see what he’s been anticipating.

Our serenader raises his voice, strings swell, cymbals sing, and John whispers, “Ready?” I nod, grinning, and John dips me. His strong hand has warmed to my skin; he’s dropped my hand to hold me in both arms as he lowers me, and I cling onto him with my own arms round his neck. As the end of the song flutters away, John leans in and kisses me. “There now,” he murmurs, his nose still brushing mine. “Finally got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is called Hold You in My Arms, by Ray LaMontagne, if you're curious.


	412. Chapter 412

"You are laughing at me, husband. I demand an explanation," Sherlock wagged his bow at me as I walked through the front door.

I grinned and hung my coat on a hook by the door. "Only I feel like I'm the protagonist of some grand drama when you play me into the flat like that."

Sherlock snorted, "Grand farce, perhaps. Hello kiss?" He tucked his violin and bow behind his back and bent toward me in invitation.

"Well then," I said when he was kissed. "What's the occasion?"

"Hang on," he said. "I'm still dressing my set." Sherlock set down his violin and bow and pushed me into my chair, then took a bottle of wine from the mantel and poured me a glass. "There you are," he handed it to me, poured his own glass, and sat opposite me in his chair.

I sipped, "Have you done something horrid? Are you buttering me up?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and sipped from his own glass, "I'm not softening your temper, John. Only I like you buttery, whether or not I've committed any recent malfeasance."

I laughed, "Well love, here's me buttery. Out with it."

"Allow me to butter at my own rate, John. We share an affinity for taking our time, I believe."

"Oh, I see. It's that sort of buttering, is it?"

Sherlock smiled into his glass, "I'll tell you everything once you've finished your first glass, John. And remember, we're taking our time. It takes you between eleven and fourteen minutes of normal conversation and nineteen minutes of absorbing conversation to finish a glass of wine, so I shall know if you rush."

I grinned and took a sip, then laughed aloud. “I can’t think of a thing to say. How long does it take me to finish a glass with no conversation?”

“Haven’t the foggiest; never comes up. You must be quite giddy and tongue-tied with anticipation.”

“Yes, go on and put me out of my misery,” I gulped from my glass.

Sherlock rather smirked, “Patience now, John. You’re going to give yourself a headache going on like that. And you don’t look remotely miserable to me.” I made an exaggerated frowning, pouting face, and Sherlock sort of snorted. “Mmmnope. Not convincing. You can’t hide the fact that you’re happy to enjoy me for however long I suggest you enjoy me.”

“Mmm, someone’s feeling bossy,” I sipped from my glass.

Sherlock laughed one of his wicked laughs, “How did you put it? ‘arrogant, imperious, pompous’?” He pressed a hand to his heart and bounced an eyebrow, “Among the first of many lavishly endowed compliments. I do love it when you wax poetic on my account, my John.”

I grinned back at him. “You weren’t so impressed at the time, if I remember correctly.”

“Early days,” he answered, his eyes fond and soft. “I hardly knew you then. I wasn’t literate in John Watson yet. Didn’t know how to read affection, however legible it was.”

“And I always thought I was so obvious.”

“I was stumbling about like a fool, John. With my eyes shut and my fingers in my ears,” Sherlock’s tone had gone soft and serious, though he was still smiling. “It was not your fault I did not see, my John.”

“Well. Incredulous self-abasement,” I was a bit. “We’ve finished with that part.”

“Yes,” his smile broadened. “So we have.”

There was about a swallow and a half still left in my wineglass, but I got it all down in one go anyway. “Are we still?” I held up my glass. Sherlock rose from his chair and took away the glass. Then he crowded himself onto the arm of my chair and descended somewhat clumsily into my lap, steadying himself by bracing his feet on the opposite arm of the chair and wrapping his arms round my neck.

“Would you like to hear what I’ve planned for our anniversary, John?” he asked into my ear.

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock laid his head on my shoulder and clasped my hand, “I’ve decided to whisk you away again. Nothing particularly glamorous, only I’d like to. Step out of sight for a few days. I intend to take very particular care of you, and I don’t want any intrusions of any nature.” He kissed my cheek. “Are you amenable? I have other notions to pursue, if you’d prefer not to travel.”

“Put me where you want me, gorgeous.” I tipped Sherlock’s chin toward my face.

“Oh John,” he kissed me. “I am glad to hear you say that.”


	413. Chapter 413

"You know that writing on the train gives you travel sickness."  
"Go back to sleep, nosy."  
"I wasn't asleep, John. I was thinking."  
"Do you always snore when you're thinking, love? I hadn't noticed it before."  
"I do not snore!"  
"You do when you're sleeping sitting up. Right in my ear. Tickles."  
"Hmph. What are you so determined to write even though it's going to make you sick down the back of my neck?"  
"I haven't been sick in ages, and I'm not going to take it up again now. And anyway, it's none of your business, nosy."  
"Is it for me?"  
"Yes. Shush. I'm trying to be romantic and poetic and all those things that bring a thrill to your heart."  
"Ergh."  
"Ergh all you like. I know you for real."  
"Yes, so you keep saying."  
"Here now. Put your head on my shoulder again...That's right. We're nice and cosy now, aren't we?"  
"Mmm."  
"I like it when you fall asleep on me on the train."  
"When you imagine that I do, you mean?"  
"I know what I know."  
"Don't we all."

...

"Oh, this is very comfortable. Very nice, Sherlock, very nicely done."  
"You like the room?"  
"Yes, it's a lovely room."  
"I thought you might prefer a guesthouse to a hotel. Privacy."  
"Ha, yes."  
"There's still room service and that. And if we, ah. Find that we have temporarily exhausted the options for entertaining ourselves here in the rooms, there are the museums. And the baths, of course. I expect we'll while away plenty of time at the baths."  
"I'm sure we will."  
"I haven't booked you any of the treatments, as I thought. Well. You don't like being petted. But you may have a look at what they've got and see if you fancy a massage or something."  
"Sherlock."  
"Yes?"  
"It's perfect, love. It's all perfect. Relax."  
"I only want to be sure that you're very well looked after, John."  
"You always do, lovely. It's wonderful. And I think I saw you slip a bottle of that wine we like into our luggage?"  
"So you did, John. So you did."

...

"I've got two-"

Sherlock cut me off with an upraised finger and a shake of his head, "Can't have two. That's not what first means. Unless it was both at once."

I laughed, "Never been that talented, I'm afraid."

Sherlock freshened my glass. "Then first is first. Can't have two." He sipped his own wine, still shaking his head.

"Well I'll tell you about the second first first and then the first first second."

Sherlock grinned at me, "You and your nonsense. On you go, then."

"Right okay. The second first was this girl called Sharon Hansen when I was fourteen. We were behind the library, about to walk home. She tasted of onion crisps, and her hands were sticky. But otherwise it was quite nice."

"Charming. And the first first, then?"

"Erm," a little sigh poofed out of me, not quite on purpose. "Well the first first was when I was five."

Sherlock leaned in, smiling, "Even more charming. Do go on."

"There was this boy called Jimmy Buckley who lived next door to me, who'd come over and play. We really liked er. Toy cars. That was mainly what we did." I paused to cough, as if my wine had gone down wrong, though I hadn't sipped it for a bit. "Anyway, my dad caught me kissing him one day. I say 'caught' as if I'd. Well. He got a bit shouty. Gave me a. Erm. Well he hit me. Mum hit the roof. At him, though. Not at me. But you know. I mean. I was a kid. It was a bit. It was difficult to. They never really, er. Got over that. My parents.” I drained my wine and looked up to find Sherlock holding the bottle out to me.

“What was Jimmy like?” he asked, refilling my glass.

I smiled, “Freckly. Really freckly. Ha, erm. He made very realistic crashing noises,” I mimed driving a toy car and demonstrated a crashing sound, and Sherlock laughed. “And er. He had curly hair as well,” I reached out to touch Sherlock’s, and he inclined his head to accommodate me. “Only his was ginger.” I coughed again, and Sherlock reached out to press my hand. Which made me a bit. “Anyway. What about you?”

Sherlock sipped his own wine, “You might find it a bit dull,” he said.

“Dull? Why should I find it dull? I’m sure it’s very sweet.”

He smiled, “It is, but you were present. You are familiar with the particulars already.”

“Me? I was-” Sherlock’s smile broadened, and he nodded. “No one had ever kissed you before that?”

“By unanimous election, I assure you, John. I was not languishing of deprivation.” His smile was a little wistful, though.

“I didn’t know that. I should have done it sooner.”

Sherlock leaned in and kissed me, “Ah, what a world that would have been.”

...

“Stop it, John! Stop it! Stop laughing!”  
“It’s sweet, love.”  
“Oh shut up.”  
“Mmm never. Kiss me.”  
“...Mmmf. Anyway. It wasn’t me talking, it was my prostate.”  
“Chatty prostate, eh? And such a soppy one.”  
“Do shut up, John.”  
“No, not ever. Your secret is out, Sherlock. You love me.”  
“Do not.”  
“Liar. Say it again.”  
“No.”  
“I love you.”  
“Mmmfiloveyoutoo.”  
“Kiss me...Mmm. Lovely. Ahhh, Sherlock. You’re still blushing. Gorgeous”  
“I never blush.”  
“Liar.”


	414. Chapter 414

Wake to a persistent banging on the door of the room. John is already sat up, rubbing his hair and looking rather grumpy, but with no trace of bleariness on his face. That'll be his military training. Awake and ready for action at a moment's notice. He gives me a pat (means me to stay put)(not likely) and rises from the bed to investigate. I follow him, donning one of the fluffy white dressing gowns provided by the accommodation (undignified)(John is properly accoutred in his own pyjamas)(doesn't believe in sleeping naked in strange places).

John's just got the door open when I join him. There's a frightened-looking young man, whom I recognise as belonging to the house staff, shuffling his feet and wringing his hands on our doorstep.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry to disturb you at this hour, gentlemen, but there's been. Something horrible has happened. You're a doctor, aren't you, sir?" His eyes are fixed on John, who nods.

"It's fine. Someone's ill? Or has been hurt?"

"Yes, sir. I." He makes a little gasp before he can quite finish, "I think he's dead."

"Have you called an ambulance?"

"Yes, sir. But. The. I. He was. Someone attacked him, I think."

"Show me." John follows him out toward the main building, and I'm just behind.

John and I exchange wry glances as we come in sight of our new friend, stretched out on the floor of the staff room situated behind the check-in desk. Certainly dead and certainly attacked. Or else struck down by some as-yet undiscovered disease which causes bullet wounds to sprout in the torsos of unshot people. Still John bends over the body to check for vital signs. As expected, John comes back up almost at once, the hem of his dressing gown gently dripping blood at one corner when he does. Our guide turns away to retch, just as the toes of my complementary fluffy white slippers are butting up against the congealing pool of blood haloed round the victim.

"When did you find him?" I ask. "And how?"

The guide opens his mouth to answer, then sways on the spot. John springs forward to catch him and eases him into a chair. "He's not up to that just at the moment, I think, Sherlock. Police, please. At once. Interrogation later."

Ergh police. Still, we did not bestir ourselves to Bath to sort out murder mysteries (if there is a mystery)(getting ahead of myself)(unacceptable). "I haven't got my phone," I tell John. "Left it on the night table."

"Take mine," comes a rather weak voice from the doorway behind me. I turn to accept the offer and find Victor Trevor, looking determined but quite ill. This is a dream, surely. It's the sort of thing I would dream. Murder holiday. Bloody slippers. Victor Trevor. This is just the sort of thing I would dream. Victor and I stand, staring at each other. I would wager that his expression of consternation and disbelief is mirrored back to him on my face. Which seems peculiar for a dream. One is not astounded at one’s dreams while in them.

Shake away the mental cobwebs (this is not a dream)(now I look at him properly, I can see obviously he works here at the guest house)(horrid blazer is clearly some kind of standard issue)(crimp in the lapel, where there’s usually a badge clipped to it)(stop deducing him; he isn’t important at the moment). Extend my hand and accept the offered phone, "Thank you." Dial 999. "Sherlock Holmes here. An ambulance was ordered to Acton Lodge a few minutes ago. We will require instead the police. Uniformed officers, enough to enact an evacuation of the guests and a DI with whatever passes for a Serious Crimes squad here. There’s been a shooting. Fatal. Shooter at large. Thank you."

“My god, Sherlock, I’m glad you’re here,” Victor blurts as soon as I’ve rung off. John’s head whips round at that, and he looks between Victor and I, his eyes narrowing (don’t look at me that way now, John). Victor blathers on, oblivious (typical)(wouldn’t know, would I?)(been over a decade). “I can’t believe it, can you? You really think it’s a murder?”

“If I were going to shoot myself, I certainly wouldn’t do it here. That’s all I know at the moment.”

“Facts first, then theories, eh? Gosh, it’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? Like you were meant to be here.”

“Oh for god’s sake. There’s no need to be romantic about it. You make me out to be some sort of supernatural force.”

John’s charge seems to be recovering himself somewhat, though he still looks rather unwell. John straightens up from him and turns back to me, though when he speaks, he (ostensibly) addresses us both. “You two know each other.”

“John, this is Victor Trevor. We were at university together, you remember. Victor, this is my husband and partner, Doctor John Watson,” touch John on the elbow as I say his name (his mouth doesn’t pull right)(had I realised before that it usually does?). John’s expression flickers, and he cocks his head.

He nods at Victor and shakes his proffered hand once before turning back to me. “Maybe we ought to have a look around?”

“For the shooter? And if we find him? Ask him please nicely not to shoot us or anyone else? What good can we do? You haven’t even got your-” swallow the word ‘gun’ before it pops out, but John seems hardly to have noticed my near-indiscretion.

He bounces on the balls of his feet and glances past me at Victor again, “We could raise the alarm.”

“People are likely safer out of the way in their beds than they’d be blundering around like panicky idiots, putting a fright into whoever did this,” gesture at the body. Somewhere in the nearish distance, the sound of several sirens is growing more distinct. “Ah, and here are the regulars. The auxiliary forces may now retreat. Well. Not now, probably. Soon.”

“Retreat? That doesn’t sound like u-” John begins.

Victor talks over him, “You won’t leave us in trouble, will you, Sherlock?” He clasps his hands, and I narrowly avoid rolling my eyes.

“Victor, John and I are not here to conduct an investigation. We’re on holiday. Murder inquiries do not factor in.” John frowns at me (not good?)(how’ve I got it wrong?)(heartless?)(that must be it, mustn’t it?)(would he really think that of me now?).  

    “Christ,” Victor hisses. He seems on the edge of hyperventilating. Annoying (heartless) Wish he’d go away. Or at least shut up (heartless).

    “Take it easy now,” John says, stepping past me to make eye contact with Victor. “Easy now. Victor. Look at me. Deep breath in...let it out. Good. Look at me. Good. We’re not going to let anything happen to you. Okay? We’ll take care of it. You believe me?”

    “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Still sounds on the edge of hyperventilating.

“It’s all right. Here, sit down.” John helps him into a chair and quietly begins to go through a breathing exercise with him. Feel ashamed at the little thrill of irritation curling in my middle. Heartless, yes. That must be it.


	415. Chapter 415

“Did you know about this?”  
“Know about what?”  
“You knew he’d be here.”  
“Who would?”  
“Don’t bloody play stupid, Sherlock! Victor. You knew Victor Trevor would be here!”  
“No, I didn’t!”  
“So it’s a coincidence, then? That we happen to be staying at a guest house that your ex works for?”  
“He is not my ex! And I had no idea he’d be here, John.”  
“You really expect me to believe that?”  
“I expect you to believe me whenever I tell you that I am not lying to you.”  
“Right.”  
“You’re actually calling me a liar to my face, John? You think I orchestrated this.”  
“Well not the murder, obviously!”  
“Generous of you. Well. And what was my nefarious intent in this little puppet show? Mm? Why on earth would I want us to have our holiday anywhere near him?”  
“It’s like you did with Sebastian, isn’t it.”  
“Like I 'did with Sebastian.’ I fear I do not understand. Pray continue.”  
“Come on, Sherlock. I know you remember. Our second case together. You only took it because your old classmate asked, and you wanted to drag me in there to prove you’d-”  
“John!”  
“Admit it!”  
“I should admit it, should I? Yes? Let me see if I can synthesise the main points of this confession you’ve prepared me before I sign my name to it. You think I proposed a holiday in celebration of our wedding anniversary and instead brought you here on purpose to parade our relationship in front of a man I fell out with fifteen years ago after a single term’s acquaintanceship? That’s really what you think of me, John? Am I so small to you? Am I so pathetic?”   
“...It isn’t as if you’ve never-”  
“I see. Thank you. That is. Much to consider. Excuse me.” 

...

 

Some things can never be entirely mended. However beautiful and serviceable the patches are, the fact of the rend remains, always. I betrayed John in an unspeakably cruel way. He'd have to be a fool to think me completely incapable of similar offenses. To never consider that I could be misleading him for my own ends. He knows me for real. I do have inside of me the capacity for remarkable selfishness. Am I callous enough, arrogant enough to ask him to blind himself with sentiment again? The notion of causing him pain is repellant to me. But I have done it. 

...

 

John,   
I wish to god I could say that you know I’d never do that to you. But you’re right. It isn’t as if I haven’t lied to you before. With such shamelessness as turns my stomach now. I thought that we were beyond that bit of our past, but perhaps it is not something that can be got over. I will always be the man who broke your heart. I hoped that I was more than that.   
If my assurances are worth anything to you, please believe that I did not bring you here to hurt you. I did not bring you here for him. Please believe me, John. Please.   
S

 

…

 

Come back. 

 

Please come back. 

 

Just answer me, so I know

 

THERE’S A FUCKING MURDERER ON THE LOOSE, SHERLOCK. 

 

Not dead.  
-SH 

 

Thanks. 

…

“Are we taking it?”  
“I rather thought you wanted to go home, John.”  
“Well. Can’t leave them in trouble, can we?”  
“No. We never do.”

…

“You aren’t a toy.”  
“No.”  
“I know you aren’t.”  
“Yes, Sherlock. I know you know, love. I’m sorry. I was really. Wrong. I’m sorry.”  
“We’ll discuss it after the case. All right, John?”  
“Okay.” 

...

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you. I can't. Well. I'll wait until after the case, if that's what you need. But."  
"Yes, John. I understand. Go on."  
"Sherlock. I. You don't. You never lie to me. I told you once that I believe in you. One hundred percent. I did then. And I do. One hundred percent. I know that you don't muck about with my life. You have never toyed with me. I was out of my mind to say it. I'm sorry."  
"Nothing outrageous about accusing a liar of lying. I did suggest that we come here because I thought we would enjoy it. But. I do not fault you for. Considering that my motives may have been less than pure. Considering our history."  
"Sherlock, you gave up a year of your life to save mine, and I threw it back in your face like it was a lark! I was wrong! I was stupid and petty and jealous and wrong. Please! Sherlock! I was wrong!"  
"I don't lie to you."  
"No!"  
"I'm sorry that I gave you cause to doubt me, John."


	416. Chapter 416

I was stood off to the side watching Sherlock talk to the police. He seemed not to relish his role as much as usual. He spoke earnestly but without much animation.

All in all, he seemed in need of a bit of bolstering, but before he approached them he told me, "This won't take long," with an apologetic smile. From this I understood that I was to wait for him and not to interfere. I'd already put him off enough, and I didn't want to do any more damage. So I waited.

While I was absorbed in watching Sherlock, Victor Trevor sidled up to me and spoke quietly and quite close. Startled me. I hadn't noticed him come up, "Has he made anything of it yet? You two going to sort it out?"

"Oh!" I stepped back, out of whispering range. "Victor, hello. Sorry. Erm, What were you saying?"

"I say I expect you two will have it sorted out in no time."

"Oh yes, I expect so. He's already solved it, I reckon. Just tying up a few things."

"Has he indeed? Well, that's our-" I went a bit hot at that, but Victor cut himself off and cleared his throat. "What happened?"

I pocketed my hands. "Hmm? Oh, dnno yet. He hasn't said."

"He told you he solved it, but not the solution?" Victor laughed. "That must be annoying." Sherlock cocked his head just slightly in our direction, though he did not pause in the speech he was making.

"Oh no, actually. We haven't really discussed the case. Only look at how he's standing. And his expression. Quite assured. Calm. Not bored or frustrated. Just. Calm. He's about finished here. Thinking of." I paused. "A good dinner. Getting one more crack at the baths before we go home." Victor laughed again. I looked at him. "It is what we came for. We're on holiday. Well. You know. Theoretically. These things just seem to find us."

"No, excuse me, Doctor Watson. I wasn't laughing at you. You're so alike. You and him. You just. See things. Or maybe it's that you know him so well, you can read him like he reads everybody else."

I smiled because I can't help smiling when people say things like that to me. "Bit of both, I suppose.”

Sherlock joined us then, “It was the Cunninghams, of course,” he announced. “Am I an arrogant fool, or have you been discussing me? Though one does not preclude the other, I suppose.”

I rested my hand on his back, and he shuffled half a step closer to me. “Victor was admiring my ability to read your mind,” I said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “My John is an incurable practitioner of witchcraft,” he said. “Though you may not know it to look at him.”

I shook my head, “He’s always spreading wild rumours about me.” I stroked Sherlock’s back, and he leaned into me a bit.

Victor laughed, “You two! You’re just like you are on the blog! It’s a treat to meet you, Doctor Watson. And to, er, re-meet you, Sherlock. I’ve made a little hobby of following your career. It really is something to see you working together! You’re so…” he gesticulated dramatically while he searched for words, “In sync! Will you let me take you to dinner?” He looked wide-eyed and smiling between the two of us.

“Thank you, no,” Sherlock said firmly. “We’re going home tomorrow, and as I brought John here to celebrate our wedding anniversary, I must insist that we finish it out alone.”

Victor’s face fell almost comically, but he brightened at once and offered his hand to Sherlock to shake, “Well we must all have a catch up, soon. I’ll come to London!”

Sherlock hmm’d noncommittally as he shook Victor’s hand, then turned to me, “Are we ready, John?”

“Ready when you are,” I said. He offered me his arm; I took it, and we were off.

…

We were sat in the steam room, and Sherlock was the picture of languor. Loose-limbed and heavy-lidded, his head leaned back against the wall, hands clasped over his belly. I know him enough now not to suppose that interior and exterior languor are exactly the same experience. Only I was a bit shy to break in on his thoughts. He glanced at me with a little invitation of a smile, and I reached out to press his hand. He took mine at once, and his smile broadened.

“How are you feeling, lovely?” I asked quietly.

Sherlock sighed and squeezed my hand, then pulled it gently to draw me a bit closer before he answered. “Very comfortable, John.”

“Nothing in particular on your mind? You look like you’re having a think.”

“I am, actually.” Sherlock fell silent again and began to stroke my hand with his thumb. “Having a think,” he continued after a moment. “Yes. Trying to recall if Victor has always been so. Puppyish.”

I smiled. “He is a bit, isn’t he? I can see why you would have liked that.”

Sherlock gave my arm a little pinch and shook his head, “Simpler times. I think. I’m sure I’ve some excuse, only I don’t feel like digging it out at the moment.”

“You don’t have to have an excuse, love. Liking people is a good thing.”

Sherlock sort of shrugged. “Sometimes.” He pressed my hand again. “We don’t have to discuss Victor, John. Only I thought it best not to obfuscate. Considering.”

I swallowed, feeling quite ashamed of myself. “You can tell me anything, Sherlock. Anything you like.” In answer, Sherlock smiled and raised my hand to kiss it. We were silent a bit longer, and I found myself wishing that we were back in our own home. Or at least our own room. I wanted to hold him. The inhibitions we were under for the sake of being decent in public seemed uncomfortably significant. I was itching to prove that they weren’t. I wanted so much to hold him. I squeezed his hand harder, and he pressed each of my fingers in turn. I opened my mouth to ask if he’d had enough of the steam room and whether he’d like to go back to the guesthouse, but he spoke first.

“I don’t suppose he was ever a friend, really. He was a fan. He didn’t owe me anything. I was. Lacking in discernment. Even now, I believe my recollections have been, ah. Contaminated. I suppose we all slot ourselves as the protagonist in every story that we tell. Even only to ourselves. Rather galling to imagine being written out in the second act. Preferable to consider ourselves tragically misused, however little evidence there is to support such a notion.”

I’d have had to pull him to his feet to hug him properly. Seemed a bit dramatic. He’d have been embarrassed. “It doesn’t make you a fool to like some one who doesn’t feel the same way about you.”

Sherlock smiled, “You take my part so eagerly, John. Always ready to defend me. My champion. It’s very affecting.”

I cleared my throat. “Sometimes quite a bit slower than I ought to be, actually.”

Sherlock kissed my hand again, “Our moments of anxiety or insecurity do not change who we really are, John. I know you for real.”


	417. Chapter 417

"Latch the door, John," Sherlock said, flinging his coat toward the hook as he entered our flat behind me. "And nail a board over it while you're at it. I'm sure yours is the only face I'm interested in seeing for the foreseeable future."

“Consider it done,” I said, hanging up my own coat. “I’m with you, love. Let’s barricade ourselves in.”

Sherlock made for the bedroom, while I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He emerged presently in his pyjamas and dressing gown, pausing to kiss the back of my neck on his way into the sitting room. A few moments later, I heard the sound of his violin. He played a little medley of the pieces he’d composed for me, then went back to the first one and went through the whole thing, rather slower than usual.

I joined him in the sitting room when the tea was ready, putting the mugs on a side table, and bending to lay a fire. When the fire was laid, Sherlock set his violin down and came over to toast his feet and sip his tea.

“Ah, John,” he said. “I should have been a musician.”

“You are a musician.”

“Instead of a detective, I meant. Only my ego wouldn’t allow me to struggle for mediocrity. I would insist on being a prodigy.”

“You’re brilliant at both,” I said. “Anyway, if you hadn’t been a detective, we’d not have met.”

Sherlock shuddered, “Ergh, what a repulsive thought. Quick, stamp on it and squash it to death, John.”

I grinned fondly and stamped my foot. “There, it’s dead, love. Got it.”

Sherlock pressed a hand to his heart and shut his eyes, “My champion.”

“Always,” I answered, clapping my own heart.

Sherlock giggled and sipped his tea again. Then he set it down and came to climb into my lap and wrap his arms around my neck. “I’ve decided to be unbearably cheery this month,” he told me.

“Have you indeed?” I grinned. “I’m anxious to see what that looks like.” Sherlock gave me a cartoonishly ghoulish grin, and I laughed. “I don’t quite call that unbearable,” I said.

“Your threshold is high,” he told me, snuffling at my hair. “I’m going to tell you why, though you haven’t the manners to ask.” I laughed and pinched him, and he pinched back before carrying on. “You told me once that the collective affectation of cheeriness produces actual collective cheeriness.”

“Yeah, I remember that. Christmas spirit, I think I called it.” I pondered the ‘affected’ bit silently and stroked his back. "Are you sad, lovely?" I asked.

Sherlock gave a theatrical little sigh and shifted about to lay his head on my shoulder before he replied, "A bit of picturesque melancholy, John. Soon to be dispelled. Nothing to worry about."

I stroked his back a bit more firmly. "That's no good." Sherlock made another little sigh. Silent this time, but I felt his chest move against me and the warm whoosh of his breath on my neck. "Can I help you sort it out, my lovely?"

He kissed my cheek. "Nothing to worry about John," he repeated.

"Even if," I paused to choose my words and drummed lightly on his back as I did. "If you're sad because your pen ran out of ink or you burnt your toast, I want to hear about that, too, love."

"I would never burn my toast, John." He kissed me again. "I am a toast expert."

"Ha. True."

Sherlock gave me one more kiss on the cheek, then rose and went to the window, catching up his violin on his way. He shuffled the sheet music on his music stand to one side, then placed a clean sheet of staff paper and a pencil on the empty side.

Then he raised his violin and began to play. He played haltingly for several minutes, pausing from time to time to stare out of the window, to hum, or to write on the staff paper. I watched his reflection in the glass of the window. After quite a long pause, Sherlock lowered his violin and caught eyes with me in the glass. His mouth had already softened from the firm line it was while he was focussed on his music into a dreamy smile.

“That was beautiful,” I told him at once.

“It may be eventually. If we are lucky.” Sherlock put away his violin and came to stretch out on the sofa, beckoning to me as he settled himself.

When I joined him, he drew me to him and kissed me. “You are not my audience, John.”

“No?”

“We are a duet. A duo, I should say.”

I smiled, “So we are.”

“Mmmm,” he nosed my hair, drawing quite a long breath before he spoke again. “What shall we call this one? I thought of ‘Picturesque Melancholy’ but.” He shook his head.

“Hmm.” Sherlock nuzzled me while I considered. “We might call it, ‘Nothing to Worry About.’”

He smiled. “Ah yes,” he said. “Just so. Of course. ‘Nothing to Worry About.’ I knew you’d solve it for me, John.”


	418. Chapter 418

“Hullo Sherlock,” I call as he sweeps into the lab. Can’t be bothered to get up and say hello nicely, though I am pleased to see him.

“Molly,” he answers, approaching. “I see you’ve switched to green tea. Minding your caffeine intake, I expect. Be careful. It can still have up to seventy milligrams per serving, and excessive consumption of caffeine during pregnancy has been linked to premature birth and low birth weight. Three cups per day is probably the limit.” He pauses in his lecture to kiss me on the cheek, and I look up from my paperwork to allow it. “I suppose you already knew all that.”

“I did, actually. I looked into these things. As. You know. I’m the pregnant one. And a doctor.”

Sherlock has the decency to look rather chastened, though not the manners to apologise. “Yes, well. Is there any coffee is what I was getting at. Eventually.”

“Not made but the things are next to the coffee maker,” I point to the worktop. “How’d you know I switched to green tea?”

He smiles, “It reeks of jasmine in here.”

“Ha, right. Jasmine.” I sniff my mug. Smells nice. I take a sip. “Should have guessed.”

“And yet, and yet,” Sherlock turns to the coffee maker and begins to fuss with the bag of coffee. He’s not very good at making it. Somehow he can never remember how it’s done.

“How was Bath? Have you come back all pruny?”

“Admirably pruny,” Sherlock says, scattering grounds over the worktop.

“You had a nice time, then? Clean that up.”

“Ergh no, it was dreadful. We had to work. I was going to!” I watch him brush the spilled grounds into his palm and then into a bin. At least a third of them go on the floor.

“There’s a broom over there,” I point. Sherlock heaves a longer sigh than should be humanly possible but fetches the broom and clears up the grounds anyway.

“You look very well,” he says when he’s finished. “Everything fine? Feeling all right?”

“All fine!” I say, then rap my pencil on the bench and say, “Touch wood.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. “None of that, Mr Skeptic. You get pregnant and then see how superstitious you are.”

“It pains me to disoblige you, Molly,” Sherlock says with a smirk. “Feeling more inhabited, then? I believe the last time we discussed it, you said it all seemed rather theoretical.” He puts the broom away and resumes his coffee preparations.

I nod, probably grinning like a fool, and rest my hand on my belly, “Yeah well, getting bigger. So that helps, but obviously I’ve got quite a ways to go. According to my pregnancy app, Katie’s only about the size of a pomegranate and weighs less than a pound. And I haven’t felt her move yet either, but it’ll be any time in the next two weeks.” I tap the bench with my pencil again. “I’m quite excited about that, actually. Mum’ll go mental, ha. Get on the next train out here, I expect.”

Sherlock pauses. “Are you going to hyphenate?” he asks with false nonchalance. “You’ve kept your name, haven’t you?”

Consider telling him to get out of it, but honestly I’m excited to babble about it a bit. And anyway it’s nice when he takes an interest so long as he isn’t an overbearing berk about it, and he seems to have burnt through today’s berkhood right at the start, so that’s all right. “Mmhmm. Probably.”

“So then it’ll be Katherine Hooper-Lestrade? Or Lestrade-Hooper?”

“Hoop-hang on! Where’d you get Katherine from?”

Sherlock turns away from the coffee maker, the remains of a mischievous smile fading into embarrassed concern, “You’ve just said ‘Katie.’ You called her Katie. I assumed Katherine and not Kathleen.”

I clap my hand over my mouth, “Oh god! It was meant to be a surprise!”

“I won’t tell anyone! I’m good at secrets!”

“Not even John?”

He looks reluctant, “Can I say it’s a girl? Only we had a bet on, and now he owes me fifty quid.”

“You bet on my baby?!”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head energetically. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Excuse my little joke.This will all stay between ourselves. My apologies.” I can’t help laughing at his expression, and he grins too. “Congratulations,” he says. I give him a hug, and he kisses my cheek again.

“Thanks,” I tell him, drawing back and bending over my paperwork. We’ve both gone a bit soppy I think, because Sherlock turns back to the coffee maker and coughs delicately.

“I’ve actually come to issue an invitation,” he says after a moment, still not looking at me.

“Oh?”

“Yes, we’re going to see Don Quixote at the Royal Opera House a week from Saturday evening, and we’re hoping you and Greg would like to make use of our guest passes. It should be quite nice. Well. From what I’ve heard Acosta’s interpretation is a bit broad, but.” He shrugs. “You know. It is Christmas.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, stirs in two sugars, and turns back to me to lean against the bench.

“That sounds lovely,” I hesitate.

Sherlock sips and grimaces. “Are you busy? I know it’s short notice.”

“No, we’re not busy. Only I don’t know what I’d wear.”

“Oh never mind about that,” Sherlock says briskly. “Aren’t pregnant women allowed to wear whatever they like wherever they go? I feel certain there’s been a law passed.”

I laugh. “All right then. In that case, Mr Greg Lestrade, Dr Molly Hooper, and Miss Katherine Ivy Hooper-Lestrade accept with pleasure your kind invitation.”

“Lovely,” Sherlock says with a grin and taps my mug with his.


	419. Chapter 419

My John comes in fuming and soaked to the skin, flapping his inverted umbrella against his thigh. "I'm trying really hard not to take this personally," he says, chucking the umbrella on the floor and making for the bathroom, shedding his sodden clothes on his way. "My leg's been aching like mad all day,” he calls over his shoulder. “So I'm going to scald it right off in the bath, and teach it to know its place." John reappears naked in the doorway of the sitting room before any anxiety has a chance to unfurl in me. "It does sometimes when it's stormy like this. It isn't the. You know. The limp. Anyway. Come and sit with me, and chat to me, or I'll be too bored to soak."

"Let me lay the fire first. I'm just behind you," I tell him. John nods his assent and stumps off to the bathroom to run his bath while I lay the fire. Put his slippers in front of it and lay his dressing gown over his chair, so they'll be nicely toasted when he comes out.

Walk into the bathroom with John’s footstool (from when he broke his leg) in hand, and I’m met with a cloud of freesia-scented steam. Wave it away with my free hand and set the footstool down next to the tub where John is already situated, pink and damp and smiling (mmmmm)(one of my favourite versions of John)(silly to compare all the different versions of John; his charm is as multifaceted as it is bottomless). When I sit, John reaches for my hand and kisses it. We sort of sigh in unison.

“It smells like my grandmother in here.”

John giggles, sweet and raspy and high, and I’m giggling along with him before he’s even made his reply, “You gave this to me! What does that say about you?” He holds up his free hand, “Actually on second thought, let’s not pull on that thread.” He dissolves into giggles again, and between the steam and the echoes, the bathroom is quite saturated with him. I want to touch more of him (considering invading his bath)(no, wouldn't do to crowd him when he's soaking his leg). John settles back in the tub, still clasping my hand and shuts his eyes.

“You look very content, John.”

“Very content, lovely.” John kisses my hand again.

“You’re comfortable? You don’t need anything?”

“Mmnope. I’ve got you right where I want you. Might make you wash my back in a bit, though.”

“Oh you’ll make me, will you?”

John opens one eye and smirks, “Yeah. Make you. If you’re good.”

Try not to shiver. Do. “Am I ever good?”

“Our sort of good, Montresor,” John says, stroking my hand.

“Ah, I see, Fortunato.”

John raises my hand and kisses my palm, my wrist. His stubble catches just slightly on my skin, and it makes me squirm. John pretends not to notice (saving up his noticing for later perhaps)(mmmm). “While we’re on the subject of being good, I don’t know that I’ve asked you what you’d like for a Christmas present this year, lovely.” John kisses my palm and fingers while he waits for me to reply, so it comes a little slower than it normally would do.

“Ahh, mm. Solitude.”

“Mmm,” John sounds a little wistful. “Our last crack at that went rather pear-shaped, didn’t it?

“Rather.”

“Maybe we should try it again.”

“Well,” waffle for a moment. “I’d rather not travel, if it’s all the same to you, John.”

“No, nor would I,” John hands me the cloth and leans forward. “Let’s think on it for a bit.”

Dip the cloth into the hot water and squeeze some of John’s bathwash onto it. It’s sort of juniper-y. Smells cold. “Have I been good, then?”

John cocks his head over his shoulder, his mouth pulling right. “Always, lovely.” John leans on his elbow and hums (that Elvis song from Greg and Molly’s wedding)(lovely) while

I wash his back. “Mmmm,” he says after a bit. “I think I’m having a brainwave.”

“You’re not sure? Perhaps it’s only a headache.”

“Here now,” John laughs, flicking water over his shoulder at me. “You’re in plenty of time for the naughty list, Mr Clever.”

“I thought I was always good. You’ve just said so.”

John flicks again, still grinning. “Well it isn’t my naughty list, is it? Are you interested in my idea at all?”

“Very. Please continue.”

“Well,” he pauses to lean back and reclaim my sudsy hand (dunks it in the water first) and holds it against his chest as he speaks. “What if we sort of put it about that we’re going away for Christmas, but we just have a little hibernation holiday right here?”

“That rather depends on what you mean by hibernation, John.”

“Ha, not sleeping. Well normal sleeping, but mainly just having a bit of privacy, you know? Doing holiday stuff here. Eating too much, drinking too much, stupid games, noisy sex. Maybe I can persuade you to play for me.”

“You’re very persuasive, John. Mightn’t Mrs Hudson give the game away?”

“She’s going to stay with her sister.”

“Mm.” Slide off my footstool onto one knee so that I can kiss him. “Quite a brainwave.”

John lays a rather soggy arm round my neck, draws me a bit nearer, and kisses me again. “I’m glad you think so, lovely. I can’t wait to have you all to myself.”


	420. Chapter 420

“Sherlock, what is this?!”  
“You’ll have to be more specific, John.”  
“‘JH Watson, 14 Dec, 9.36 ml.’”  
“Oh that. Can’t you tell by looking?”  
“Sherlock!”  
“You left it behind, John. I assumed you were finished with it.”  
“What is it doing in the microwave?”  
“It isn’t doing anything, John. It’s just sitting in the jar.”  
“Why are you microwaving it?!”  
“Just passing the time.”  
“Right, of course. You were a bit bored, and you thought ‘Well, nothing on the telly, but I can always put John’s spunk in micro and see what happens. Hopefully giant mutant sperm.’”  
“Firstly I object to the implication that I entertain myself with television. Secondly what on earth would be the utility of giant mutant sperm?”  
“You’re right, sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”  
“That’s all right, John. I forgive you.”  
“So generous.”  
“One of my finer virtues.”

…

 

“Sound the horns! Strike the-oh.”  
“Oh what?”  
“John, what on earth is on your shirt?”  
“Is it noticeable? I was told it wasn’t noticeable.”  
“I notice everything. Forgive me for pressing you, but what is that? It looks familiar, but certainly I must be mistaken?”  
“Ah, I had a brief lapse in judgement this morning to do with how much clotted cream should go on a scone at one time.”  
“I see.”  
“So I spent my day sticky and blotchy.”  
“Indeed. And I don’t know what you mean by standing there all this time and neglecting my hello kiss. Come here at once!”  
“Mmm sorry, lovely. Mmmmm. There. How’s that?”  
“Better. And don’t make me speak to you about it again.”  
“Oh? What happens then?”  
“Do not pretend to be ignorant of the penalty for your malfeasance, John.”  
“I’m a shockingly ignorant man. But I’ll have a guess. Is it a pressing?”  
“It is a pressing,as it happens. But guessing is a horrible habit, John. It’s destructive to the logical faculties. And that earns you a pressing.”  
“They’re really piling up, aren’t they. No escaping fate, I suppose.”  
“Apparently not.”

…

“Are you listening to me at all?”  
“No. Why?”  
“So you don’t know what you’ve just agreed to, then?”  
“Something nice, I’m sure. Going to tell me about it, John?”  
“It was to do with. Hats.”  
“Good god. John, how could you take advantage of me this way?”  
“I was checking if you were listening to me. And now I know.”  
“Menace.”  
“Too late now, Sherlock.”  
“John, please.”  
“Don’t worry lovely, I’ll find you a really good one.”  
“John!”  
“Just relax, Sherlock. You’re in good hands.”


	421. Chapter 421

I had dropped off. I must have dropped off (The ROH is bloody hot) because I wake with an interesting sort of twitching low down in my belly. Takes me a moment to cotton on to what it is, then with a little gasp, I grab the hand attached to the arm propped on my armrest and press it to me. “Greg, feel that!” I whisper. There’s a little ‘oh!’ of surprise, and the hand begins to gently withdraw at once.

“Over there,” whispers John, tugging his hand away and pointing to Greg, who is sat on my other side.

“Right,” I mutter, my face heating so quickly that I’m grateful for the darkness. “Sorry.”

“All right, sweetheart?” Greg asks when I turn to him, his expression caught between amusement and concern.

In answer, I take his hand and hold it to my belly, where the twitching is strongest. “Feel that,” I whisper, though I need not have. He lights up with a new sort of smile that I’ve not exactly seen before.

“That’s our Katie,” he breathes. I can only nod. Greg shifts a bit to lean in closer, and we spend the rest of opera curled toward each other with his hand on me and my hand over his.

…

 

“What were you two hissing and squawking about like a pair of geese?” Sherlock remarks, adjusting his scarf with a flourish. “I can’t bring you anywhere.”

“Says the man who forgot his pants at Buckingham Palace,” answers Greg, passing his ticket to the coat check attendant and reaching for my hand.

“You make it sound as if I lost them at the palace. That was a protest! And anyway, who told you?!” Sherlock wheels to glare at John, who gives him a sunny grin.

“It was on the blog, love. Years ago. Remember?”

“I must have deleted it, as I am generous enough to do with all of your efforts to embarrass me.”

John taps the tip of Sherlock’s chin with his index finger and laughs. “Picture of generosity, you are. Practically Father Christmas.”

Greg and I laugh as well, and Sherlock tosses his head. “Positively surrounded by would-be comedians,” he sniffs.

“Is there anyone Sherlock doesn’t squabble with?” I ask, catching eyes with John.

“Hmmm,” John looks up at the ceiling as he thinks. “Smoke? The cat?”

“Actually her tail went in my tea the other day, and I was very stern with her about her carelessness,”

John laughs again, “Yeah, I heard that actually. But you made it up so quickly that I’d not exactly call it a squabble.”

“All three of you adore making me sound ridiculous. I don’t know why I continue to put up with you.” John gives Sherlock’s elbow a little tug and kisses him on the cheek, and

Greg glances at me and smiles. Sherlock looks past John at me, “At least tell me why you grabbed John.”

I laugh nervously, “I thought he was Greg. I’d fallen asleep,” I admit.

Sherlock shakes his head and links arms with John, towing him toward the exit, “You lot are coming back for a nightcap, yes? We mayn’t see you again before the new year; we’re going away.”

Greg and I glance at each other. “Sure,” he says. “Quick one.”

We share a cab back to Baker Street, and Sherlock makes for his music stand by the sitting room window as soon as he’s got his coat off. Greg and I take the sofa, and John goes into the kitchen to get wine and glasses.

“Any requests?” Sherlock raises his violin to his shoulder and looks round at us.

“Partita No One?” John calls from the kitchen. Sherlock makes a little bow toward the kitchen, then turns back to the window and begins to play. Lean back into the sofa and shut my eyes. After a few bars, Katie starts up her dancing about again, and I press my hand to the spot, because it seems rude to ignore her.

“Erm,” says Greg, and I feel him lean toward me. I nod without opening my eyes, and he puts his hand next to mine on my belly. “She’s musical,” he whispers.

I grin and nod, “Yeah, maybe she is.”


	422. Chapter 422

"That was ruthless, outrageous, unscrupulous, excessive, and frankly rude!" Sherlock's got some sort of magical power that makes even his laziest drawling sound patrician and imperious.

I gave his hair a little tug and enjoyed his answering squawk and shiver before I replied, "That's flattering, lovely, thanks."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself John Watson."

"Ha maybe, but instead I'm really very proud. Did you know you're drooling on my chest?"

Sherlock flopped hard against me and swabbed at his mouth. "I am not!"

I dabbed my finger into the moisture he’d left on my chest and wiped my fingertip on the end of his nose. “Explain that, then.”

Sherlock jerked his head up and caught my finger between his teeth. “It’s your own sweat, John Watson,” he said around the finger in his mouth with impressive ease.

“It’s about 95% Sherlock drool and 5% John sweat. And that’s me being generous because I’m feeling really smug at the moment, and I can afford it.”

Sherlock yawned mightily, and I pulled my finger away. “Mmmf. I’m not listening to you anymore. I’m sleepy. Pet me and assure me that I will eventually recover from that orgasm.”

I sunk my fingers into Sherlock’s hair, and he made a deep, thrumming sigh of contentment. “You may never recover from that orgasm, Sherlock. You may well spend the remainder of your life jelly-legged and languid and really, really cuddly.”

“‘Mnot cuddly,” Sherlock protested, closing his eyes. “Only soggy with oxytocin.”

“Comes to the same,” I said, kissing his hair. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not listening John,” Sherlock yawned again. “Not listening. Pet me.” I ran a light and obedient hand down Sherlock’s back, and he shivered and heaved a mighty sigh. “Oh god, that’s only making it worse...no, no don’t stop. When did I say you could stop? Never ever stop, John. Never stop.”

 

…

I woke without my Sherlock in the still-dark. That never suits me, so up I got and went looking for him. Didn’t have to look long or far, because he was in the kitchen, standing over the worktop, busy with something or other and humming quietly. He turned when he heard me enter, crossed to me, and kissed me.

“John,” he said with his nose in my ear, so that I felt his voice in my throat and down my spine.

“G’morning lovely. What are you doing so dark and early?”

Sherlock smiled and kissed me again, “Can’t you deduce it? I’ll just give you a moment.”

“God Sherlock, it’s early yet for deductions.”

“A few moments, then.” Sherlock took half a step back from me so that I could look at him properly.

“Oh all right.” I looked carefully. He looked normal, really. He had a lab apron on over his pyjama bottoms and one of my jumpers, with the sleeves turned up to his elbows. “No dressing gown,” I said.

Sherlock grinned encouragement. “Good. Go on. What else?”

“Oh come on Sherlock, just tell me! You look the same as usual.”

“Don’t be boring John. You can work it out; you know you can. Pretend I’m a corpse.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. It’s Christmas.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ergh, fine. I’ll have another go.” I leaned in and looked close at his face. “You’ve got a thumbprint on your forehead. Some sort of white powder. Looks like your thumb, I think.”

Sherlock nodded, still beaming. “Go on.”

I lifted his right hand to examine it. “Yeah, your thumb. Hmm. Here’s that white powder. And some kind of dried paste? Looks floury. As you’re not a corpse, I’m going to-” I licked the tip of his thumb. “Mmyep. Flour.” I looked up at him. “Sherlock. You’re not.”

“Not what?” he pressed, with thinly concealed delight.

“Baking?”

His grin broadened even more. “What do you think?”

“Ooooh! I’ve just had the most perfect idea. Go and sit.” I pointed to the table. “Back in a tic.” And I just nipped up the stairs to the empty bedroom to get my little present and came straight back to the kitchen, with it held behind my back. “You will never deduce this, so I won’t make you try.”

“Some kind of hat,” Sherlock said at once. “Fiend.”

I laughed and dropped it on his head. “You say such sweet things, when you’re all brimming over with Christmas spirit, lovely. And you look extremely handsome under there.”

“What is this ridiculous thing you’ve put on my head, John?” Sherlock swept off his hat to look at it and began to laugh. It was a paper chef’s toque with a sprig of mistletoe taped to it. “How on earth did you know I’d need this, you witch? Dark arts, I expect. And on Christmas Day, John. I wish I could say I’m surprised at you.” He caught me by the arm and tugged me to him, pulling me onto his lap.

I put the hat back on his head and kissed him. “It was for me, actually.”

“Too late for that, witch. You’ll have a pressing just as soon as my pies have gone into the oven.”

I kissed him again. “So generous with me, Montresor.”

“Happy Christmas, Fortunato.”

“Happy Christmas, Montresor.”


	423. Chapter 423

Lying on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling and thinking of noble things, such as science and philosophy and whether I can persuade John to pop to the shop (not the near one that we usually go to but the other one because they have those really really crisp ginger biscuits that are brittle in just the right way and sort of caramelised round the edges) without my having to put on trousers (my legs are cold actually, but all the trousers are in the other room, and John’s blanket is on the back of his chair)(suppose I might call John in to build me a fire)(like to watch him do that)(the back of his neck)(mmm)(his arse)(mmmmm). Clearly minding my own business, not troubling anyone at all, when am struck in the chest by a pair of pyjama bottoms and several bin liners. Push myself into a sitting position, wearing (I’m sure) an expression of utmost dignity and magnanimous forgiveness.

John is standing over me, head cocked, arms akimbo, and (ergh) fully dressed. Looks quite Captain Watson, actually (mmmm)(perhaps can do something about that fully dressed business).

“Can I help you?” I ask, just how he likes (lower the voice, cock the eyebrow, half smile)(effective about 58% of the time when deflecting)(86% of the time when deployed without contextual interference).

John raises his eyebrows, and his mouth starts to pull right (excellent!), but then he points at the bags laid over my thighs, “Put the rubbish out.”

I don’t let it deter me. “Is that all?” He sounds very Captain Watson, actually (mmmm).

“You asking for a list? Put the rubbish out, Sherlock. Every single bin in the flat is overflowing with your rubbish. There’s a bloody specimen in the one under the sink!” he points at me sternly. “Put the rubbish out. It’ll be a novel experience for you. Maybe I’ll write it up on the blog.” And he turns on his heel and marches (mmm) back into the kitchen to bang about, fussing over the washing up (ergh). Kick the bags off of me onto the floor and resume my position, laying flat on the sofa looking up at the ceiling. There’s a pause in the banging from the kitchen. “Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Rubbish, Sherlock. Put the rubbish out.”

A small amount of my magnanimity leaks out when I sigh in response, but I get up anyway, put on the stupid pyjama bottoms, and go round the flat collecting the harmless rubbish that (like me) was attending to its own business, not giving anyone any trouble about anything. Alarmingish amount of it, though. Fill three of the bin bags and then half of one more. Stuff my feet into John’s slippers (where’ve mine got to?) and carry my haul into the kitchen, past John to the back door.

“And the one under the sink,” he reminds me. Go to the sink. Ah. There is a smell. That’ll be the tongue (how long has it been there?)(too long, clearly). Knot up the bag and carry it with the others to the door.

Nearly stumble over something propped across the threshold, but ultimately only bang it with one of my sacks of rubbish and knock it sliding a few feet into the corridor. Set down the bags and stoop to pick up whatever it is. Long, slim, flattish parcel. Wrapped in slate blue paper with a dark red bow and a little white card fixed on just below the bow. Spot Mycroft’s affectedly untidy scrawl and nearly rip open the card, before I realise that John’s name is written on it, and not mine. ‘Dr John H Watson.’ Shake off a prickle of something approaching indignation and carry the parcel into the kitchen, thrusting it at John as I enter.

“What’s all this?” he says, wiping his hands on a tea towel as he turns toward me.

Shake the parcel. “Don’t know yet, do I? It’s inside of a box.”

John grins and lowers the parcel with his hand, leaning in to kiss me. “Still cross about the rubbish, then? Bad luck, Fortunato.”

“I’ve never been cross in my life, Montresor.”

John laughs and kisses me again. “Really though, what is this?” he asks, laying his hand on the box. “Is it for me?”

“It’s got your name on it.”

John takes the box and peels off the card, then looks up at me with a little flicker of concern in his eyes, “You didn’t write this card.”

“Mycroft,” I say.

John raises his eyebrows and turns his attention back to the card. Lean in close to read it.

‘To Doctor John H Watson from his brother Mycroft Holmes with fond regards and best wishes for a happy new year. Please note that it is large enough for two, though I fear S will always make you hold it. He never has been much for this sort of thing.’

Hmph. Mycroft hasn’t given me a present in sixteen years (in the late nineties, I got into the habit of sending his gifts back in pieces when he annoyed me)(he took that so personally). He didn’t even give us a wedding present. No, actually. He has given me a present recently. He gave me Mummy’s opera passes. Damn him. He can’t even annoy me the way I want him to. Turn to John, expecting him to look irritated.

“Make me hold it?” he mutters. “What’s that mean?”

“Open it,” I say. “I’m not psychic.”

John grins and begins tearing into the paper, “You have your moments.” It’s an umbrella. A handsome stick umbrella with a polished maple handle that rather echoes John’s favourite brogues. The canopy is a navy blue that should match perfectly his winter coat (that I gave him last year)(John’s shoulders in that coat)(mmmm). “Ha. Well.” John lifts the umbrella out of the box. It’s the perfect length for him, of course. “This is surprising. D’y’suppose he saw me come in with the inverted one the other day? CCTV?”

“Obviously.”

“Well you always told me that the collapsible ones are shit.”

“So they are.”

John smiles at me (he’s too pleased), “Let’s go and test it.” and he takes me by the hand and tows me to the balcony. We climb out onto it and John opens the umbrella over us.

“Large enough for two,” John nods. “Not a bad place for a snog, eh?” He leans up and kisses me enthusiastically (mmmm). “And I don’t mind holding it.”

His eyes are very blue in this blueish light. “I can hold it as well,” I put a hand above his on the handle.

John grins and drops his hands to my waist, pulling me to him and leaning past the shaft of the umbrella to kiss me again. “Of course you can, lovely. I know you can.”


	424. Chapter 424

John’s sat in his chair, glaring at the newspaper, without turning any pages. He keeps pausing to wipe his eyes. Won’t use a tissue. Making a point. Stubborn. He’s fully dressed, including his shoes despite the fact that we’ve got nothing on (still doing our barricade thing)(it’s been excellent) and he’s nursing (well ignoring)(ought to be nursing) a cold. He grimaces with effort, rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, and nonetheless sneezes several times, wetly and rather spectacularly, then lapses into a sort of sniffy coughing fit. It’s all very. Damp. Noisy and damp. Get up from the sofa and go and kneel by the hearth to lay a fire.

John shifts his glare from the newspaper to me, “I’m fine!”

Cock my head over my shoulder, “I’m cold, John.”

“Hmph.” John disappears behind the newspaper, and I swallow a smile. Go into the kitchen to see about some tea and feel John’s suspicious glare follow me.

“Cold, John!” Smile again when I hear him harumph behind me. Do the tea and bring it back to the sitting room when it’s brewed. Set John’s on the side table next to his chair without remark and take mine back to the sofa. Sip my tea with my eyes trained on John. When he’s had about half his mug, I set my own down and stretch out on the sofa.

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m still cold.”

“There’s a jumper on the back of the sofa, Sherlock. Put it on.” Reach for it sighing (for effect) and put it on. It’s quite lovely, actually. All soft and John-smelling. Mmm. Would be tempting to wear only John’s freshly-worn clothes, except that I look like an actual child in jumpers and things. Takes all sorts of sartorial trickery to make me look interesting and imposing. John can manage it in fair isle. John can manage it in a bath towel, if he likes (or completely naked)(mmm). John is some magic thing, able to dazzle the eyes of mortals. Here’s me woolgathering. Must focus. My magic thing needs me.

“John?” comes out slightly more plaintive than I had intended. That’s all right, though it nearly makes me laugh (which would not be all right at this juncture)(well it’s all fine always, only it’d set me back from my aim). Swallow a smile and look over at John.

John fidgets with his paper a moment before he answers (he’s onto me), “Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’m still cold, John.” Obvious lie. I’ll be sweating soon, actually.

“Rule one, Sherlock.” John starts to raise his paper again.

“And I want kisses.” John looks at me for a long moment, his face a droll mix of affectionate, irritated, and amused (brow furrowed, mouth pulling right). Wet my lips and give him my most winning smile.

John laughs outright at that, folds his paper, and tucks it into the corner of his chair. Then he rises and comes to sit next to me on the sofa, “Are you wanting my attention, lovely?”

I nod and sit up, “Yes, John.” He likes that. “Only your nose is doing something. Attend to that first.” Pass him a few tissues from the box on the end table, and he attends to his nose with minimal scowling. Resist the urge to ask him if he feels better and kiss him instead. It’s quite a nice kiss. John’s cool, soft hands rest on the back of my neck and fiddle with my hair, and his mouth is warm and wet and responsive (mmmm).

“Better, love?” John draws back a bit so that we’re nose to nose and cups my jaw, strokes my ear (makes me tingle when he touches me that way)(god, his hands are exquisite!).

Shiver. Nod. “Yes, John.” He wets his lips at that, and nothing else in his face (nothing quantifiable!) changes, but something begins to unfurl in my middle at his expression. No, no, no. Not that sort of kissing. “Will you come into the bedroom with me, John? I want you to stretch out with me.” John rises and offers me his hand, eager enough to be agreeable now it’s not on his own behalf.

Take John’s hand and follow him into the bedroom, where I shuck off my pyjama bottoms (leave my socks and John’s jumper) and get into bed. Into bed properly. Under the blankets. John follows suit and allows me to pull him close.

John strokes my hair, and we sigh in unison, “I’ve just been put to bed, haven’t I?”

“Mmm,” I stroke his back. “Are you sleepy?” The cold’s in his chest, I think. Every few breaths is a wheeze.

“I could sleep,” he admits. “Are you going to leave me when I drop off?”

“No, I can stay.” Kiss his chest.

“So I’ll wake up with you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John,” kiss his chest again. “I’ll be right where you left me.”


	425. Chapter 425

Are you still  
1\. Pretending you haven't got a birthday?  
2\. Pretending you're on holiday?  
~Molly~

 

I never pretend. Pretending is beneath me. I am extremely serious, always.  
-SH

 

Okay, then Greg and I'll come round this afternoon because we have a pressie for you!  
~Molly~

 

There's no stopping you?  
-SH

 

None at all!  
~Molly~

 

Your pregnancy has had a poor effect on your temperament.  
-SH

 

You're all cheery. It's unsettling.  
-SH

 

Shut it.  
~Molly~

 

That's much better.  
-SH

 

See you tonight!  
~Molly~

 

Yes, I expect so.  
-SH

…

 

"Ah. Thank you, John, but no."  
"No?!"  
"You're only going to sneeze on it."  
"...I am not!"  
"That'd be more convincing had you not sneezed before you said it."  
"It's the wine."  
"It isn't."  
"I'm very good."  
"Yes, I remember. Fondly. Still. I'll take a rain check, if it's all the same to you."  
"But it's your birthday! And you won't let me give you any other presents."  
"Your present to me can be not snotting on my cock."  
"Snotting?!"  
"Oh, and you've already given it to me! How thoughtful! Thank you, John, this is very handsome! Happy birthday to me. You can get off the floor now, John."  
"Spoilsport."  
"Your nose is dripping."

…

 

“Ah, hello Hoopers!” Sherlock answers the door before we even knock, a bit pink in the face and grinning. He tugs us in by our respective coat sleeves and gives me a kiss on the cheek, then claps Greg on the shoulder.

“I’m actually still a Lestrade,” says Greg.

“That was a terrible greeting,” Sherlock replies. “More of a criticism really. Anyway, how many of your names do you expect me to learn? You’re really setting an unreasonable standard.”

“Just the one. Same one I’ve had since you met me.”

“But now there’s this other one,” Sherlock waves vaguely at me. “John and I share. Can’t you share? How selfish.”

“I thought you said Sherlock Watson was your pet name,” I say.

“He’s pissed,” John puts in helpfully from his chair.

“So are you!” Sherlock retorts, spinning on the spot to face John and setting his dressing gown whirling around him.

Greg laughs, “Bit early to be so far along.” He checks his watch, “Only half six.”

Sherlock laughs, “Oh but we’re on holiday! How on earth did you find us? Not a soul knows we’re here.”

“That was a joke,” John tells us.

“Yeah, got it,” I say. Sherlock seems more appreciative of the clarification, though.

He goes and perches on the arm of John’s chair, wobbles for several seconds, then leans in to kiss John. “Mm,” he sighs after a moment, “I don’t even mind you’re dripping on me.”

Greg clears his throat loudly, “Well, clearly you’re busy. So we’ll just give you your present and leave you to it, then shall we?”

Sherlock turns back to us and wobbles right off the arm of John’s chair onto the floor with a somewhat worrisome thump, “Oh yes, you’ve actually come about something.” He shrugs, “Well. Somethingish.”

I laugh and dig a little parcel out of my bag and hand it to him. “Here you are. Somethingish for your birthdayish.”

“There isn’t any cake this year,” Sherlock remarks as he tears away the wrapping paper. “Sorry. John, is there any more wine?”

“Errrrrrr, in the kitchen, I think. Shall I fetch it?”

“No, we really are going to leave you to it,” I tell them. “Don’t get up.”

“Oh,” Sherlock clambers to standing and shoves his present toward John. “Look at this. Is this what I look like?” Feel a bit nervous at that question. It’s a photo of them that we’ve had framed. The two of them dancing together at our wedding reception. Quite a nice photo. I thought he’d like it. But he’s sort of frowning. Or his face has gone all furrowy anyway. Perhaps it’s a furrow of enjoyment.

John looks up at him with a soppy smile, “Yeah, love. Looks about right to me.”

Sherlock looks back to Greg and me, “I didn’t know I was so. Legible.”

Greg grins at him, “Sorry mate, but I don’t think that’s the first any of us noticed you’re in love with John.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “It isn’t a secret! Only.” He looks down at the photo again, “I didn’t realise I was so. Chalant.”

John laughs, “It’s not a question of chalant or nonchalant, love.”

“No?”

“Some things you can’t be nonchalant about,” I say. “It’d be sort of like trying to be nonchalant about being human.”

“He is, though,” mutters Greg, and I press my lips together to stop a snort.

John has taken Sherlock’s hand, though, and they aren’t noticing us anymore, “Is the sky nonchalant about being the sky?” Sherlock is still frowning. John stands and kisses him, then sets the photo on the mantel. “The sky is blue and up. Sherlock loves John. Mm?”

“That’s a truism,” Sherlock grumbles. But he looks as if he understands when he leans in for another kiss.


	426. Chapter 426

You are allowed to come into the flat, you know. No need to sneak and lurk in the corridor like a ghoul.  
-SH

 

If you’ve recently become a vampire and can’t cross the threshold without an invitation, here is your invitation.  
-SH

 

My, aren’t we feeling whimsical this afternoon.  
-M

 

This is your way of thanking me for the gift, I presume.  
-M

 

And may I remind you that the last time I entered your flat, you and your husband jumped out of a window.  
-M

 

I would prefer it if you leapt from buildings as infrequently as possible. It does dreadful things to my blood pressure.  
-M

 

Sentiment.  
-SH

 

Indeed.  
-M

 

That was a genuine offer, you know.  
-SH

 

Thank you.  
-M

 

…

 

"Ah John," Sherlock called from his chair as I walked into the flat to find him sat across from Mycroft, who was in my chair. "Forgive me not getting up for a proper greeting," he said. "My brother is a filthy cheat, and I don't dare leave my cards alone with him." Sherlock pointed the little fan of cards in his hand at Mycroft, taking care only to show the backs.

"Such colourful language," Mycroft said mildly. "Good evening, John. You look well."

"Thanks Mycroft," I hung up my coat. "Likewise." I crossed the room and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Hullo love." Sherlock leaned into the kiss for half a moment, but didn't return it. I patted his shoulder, and he nodded.

"John can be moderator," Sherlock said. "We'll get on quicker that way."

"As you like," Mycroft replied, looking down at his own fan of cards.

"Er, can I? What am I moderating?"

"Get a chair, John. You'll see in a moment, since he's constantly cheating."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow without looking up from his cards, "Bluffing," he said. "It isn't cheating, when it's part of the game. Bitterness does not do you credit, Sherlock." Sherlock snorted loudly.

I drew up a chair from the kitchen and placed it by Sherlock's. He shook his head. "The middle please, if you don't mind, John. Twos." I adjusted my chair.

"I regret that I must disoblige," Mycroft smiled very unregretfully.

Sherlock scowled, "Liar."

"Challenge?" Mycroft looked at me.

"Er. What? I'm lost," I said. They ignored me.

Sherlock squinted at Mycroft carefully and nodded, "Challenge."

Mycroft held his cards out to me, "If you would do the honours, John. Do I have any twos in my hand?"

I looked at them. "Sorry love. No twos."

Sherlock looked outraged, "You're faking your tells!"

"Bluffing," Mycroft tilted his head with a little smile. "Excuse me for pressing you, but I believe you owe me a penalty."

I laughed at Sherlock’s expression as he handed Mycroft all the matches he’d already made, “Mind you don’t provoke him too much, Mycroft. I’ve had that deck since the Army days, and it ought to survive an afternoon of Go Fish with the Holmes’, if it survived Helmand and Kandahar. Don’t want Sherlock here chucking any of it on the fire.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, and Sherlock goggled at the cards in his hand, “You never told me about that!” he said, half turning in his chair to look at me.

I stroked his forearm, “Well it never came up. I didn’t know you played cards, love.”

“I play everything.”

I grinned, “I must remember that.”

Sherlock winked at me, then turned back to Mycroft and drew a card, “Your go.”

Mycroft smiled at the cards in his hand, drumming his fingers lightly on the pile he’d just won from Sherlock, “Eights?”

“Go fish!” Sherlock said, nearly before the words were out of Mycroft’s mouth, giving my chair leg the gentlest of kicks.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, “Forgive my skepticism, Sherlock. It answers your vehemence. Challenge.”

Sherlock held out his hand toward me, and I peered at it. Eight of clubs. I turned back to Mycroft, “Bad luck, Mycroft.”

“Bugger!” Mycroft shoved back the cards he’d just won off Sherlock as well as his own matches.

“I win!” Sherlock crowed, dragging the cards toward himself with his free hand. “That means you’ve got to buy me a drink.”

“You’ve won that hand, Sherlock. The game isn’t over yet.”

“I win! Rules are rules, brother,” Sherlock primmed up his mouth in a rather broad impression of Mycroft.

“You won one hand, and I gave you my cards! The drink is for the winner of the game, Sherlock!”

“Well, I’m bored of the game now, and the last time we played it all the way through, it took three hours and ended with a sprained finger.” Sherlock looked at me, “I was a touch more impulsive then than I am now,” he remarked.

I raised my eyebrows, “What did you do to him, Sherlock?”

“Nothing he couldn’t have foreseen, if he hadn’t insisted on being bloody stubborn,” Sherlock tucked his cards into my hand, got up and made for the window, where he picked up his violin.

“You and I might carry on with the game,” I told Mycroft. “In the normal way, without the cheating and lying and all.”

“He doesn’t see the point of that,” Sherlock called over his shoulder. “Manipulation is Mycroft’s bread and butter. It sustains him.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but he was drowned by the sound of Sherlock’s violin as he began to play. Mycroft shook his head irritably, rose, and left the flat. Sherlock carried on with his playing, and I moved to the sofa to enjoy it better. It was quite a short piece. Sherlock finished it with a flourish in a couple of minutes and made me a little bow.

I applauded, “Lovely.”

Sherlock beamed and set down his violin. He came to the sofa to sprawl over me and kissed me properly on the mouth, “I suppose I’m well outside of the window,” he murmured.

I tapped his chin, “The hello kiss window? That’s a matter we’ll have to look into later, lovely.” Sherlock smiled a smile that was both lecherous and bashful and laid his head on my shoulder. I stroked his hair, “Was that a new piece, love? I hadn’t heard it before.”

Sherlock sat up, “It’s the first piece I ever composed,” he said. “Age sixteen. Mycroft sent me the sheet music for it earlier today. Pinned it to the back door, like a ransom note.” Sherlock thrust his hand into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out a card for me to look at.

‘I hope you will excuse my having removed this from its proper place. It now occurs to me that I may have wrongly deprived you of it. Sentiment. Many happy returns, Sherlock. May you always retain your youthful vigour.  
-M’

“Well that’s nice,” I handed the card back.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, looking round. “But apparently he’s niced out for the evening.”

Sherlock leaned in to kiss me again, and there was a gentle throat clearing from the doorway. We got off the sofa to have a look.

“You've grown so cynical in your advancing years, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He held out a bottle of whiskey, “Here is your drink. Now go and get three glasses, and I’ll tell John all about how you sprained my finger.”


	427. Chapter 427

I’m cold. Balled up on the sofa and cold. I need socks, and I want a blanket. Can’t be bothered to acquire either. Dig my feet down the back of the sofa cushions, but it’s cold there, too. Cool leather feels damp against my soles, though I know it isn’t. John is at the desk fussing with his laptop (not looking at me) and doesn’t notice I want him. I want John to make me warm almost more than I want to be warm (teeters back and forth). He’s rubbing his head as he stares at the screen, absentmindedly feeling about for his reading glasses with his right hand (kitchen table)(but I’m not going to say). Growing more and more irritated that I don’t know what he’s looking at, but I can’t be bothered to ask.

Curl in on myself a bit more, “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” John doesn’t look up. “What’s that, love?” Too indolent and irritable to reply. Takes John a moment to notice that I haven’t. “Are you talking to me, Sherlock?”

“Mmf.”

John rises from the desk and comes to stand at the foot of the sofa, "Sorry, love. I didn't hear you." I make no reply. He sits down next to me, "Why are you all. Like that?"

"Question for the ages," I mutter.

"I mean why are you looking like you've been sent to bed without supper?" He's annoyed with me (I am annoying). Shrug.

"Are you asking me to explain your own analogies to you?" Rude things are easier to say than pleasant ones (why?)(self-fulfilling something or other).

John makes a little sigh and drops one soft, warm hand (can feel even through my pyjama bottoms) onto my ankle and strokes it. He gives my ankle a little squeeze, then gets up and reaches for the blanket on the back of his chair, “Your feet are cold.” And he pulls my feet into his lap and tucks the blanket over both of us. Under the blanket, John alternately presses each foot between his palms, until the chill is off my skin. Then he strokes along the arch of my left foot, firm enough not to tickle. I let him stroke me for a bit, then shift about and reverse my position to lay my head in his lap.

Press my face against his stomach and drag in long breaths of his smell (lovely lovely lovely), "Don't you ever tire of being criminally pleasant, John?"

There's a suggestion of a laugh in John's warm reply, "I'm literally only sitting still while you use me for a cushion."

"If you are going to be better than I deserve, then you might at least allow me to acknowledge it."

"I'm not better than you deserve," I can hear a frown in his voice now. "Really, I'm not, Sherlock. I'm not better than you are, and I'm certainly not nicer." Huff impatiently, gusting my irritable breath back in my own face. "I'm not!" John (because he is kinder than I am, whatever he alleges) swallows the rest of his retort and strokes my hair. I can feel the turning of his mind in his (gentle, lovely) fingers on my scalp while he sorts out what he wants to say to me from what he has decided he probably shouldn’t, "It doesn't annoy me to see you in pain, Sherlock. I'm not being especially generous in-" he halts, and his fingers grow firmer against me. "I just want you to feel better, lovely. I only want you to feel better."

"I'm not in pain, John!"

His hand pauses, "No?"

"Just being irrational. Nothing is. Nothing is the matter. I'm only cross and edgy for no reason."

John's hand in my hair resumes its motion. So tender that I do quite honestly want to cry (his gentleness flays me open, vivisects me so that I can inspect myself)(how can there be nothing extraordinary in that?). "My lovely, you don't have to prove that you deserve to feel out of sorts. Sometimes you just do. And if I can make you feel better, I will. It's what I'm for. Yeah? You do the same for me." Shrug. At the moment, I cannot recall ever having been useful. Certainly not to John. "Having an iron-clad reason to feel a particular way is a pretty cold comfort. I knew for certain that I had a great hole blown in my shoulder, and it didn't make me feel any better about-" he checks himself, squeezes my shoulder (hadn't even felt his hand there). "Sorry. That's. Probably not helpful. Ha." John clears his throat, "Anyway. Knowing why you feel like shit doesn't do you any good, unless you use it to address your problem. And we know you're a bit out of sorts just because you are. It's all right. And we might get some food in you and have a walk or a bath or a shag or a game. Or you might play. Or maybe we'll just laze about on the sofa and watch telly. Any of that sound good?" Nod (because I’ve been rude enough already) and stay where I am (because I don’t want to do anything else).

After a moment, John pulls the blanket out from where it’s been wadded up between us and flaps it to open it wide, settling it over me. He leans to his left and tucks the blanket over my feet.

“Thank you,” they’d begun to go cold again.

John sort of hums through his nose and leans forward to kiss my hair, “Of course.”


	428. Chapter 428

"This is Doctor Watson."  
"John?"  
"Sherlock? You all right, love?"  
"Yes, fine. Why aren't you answering my texts?"  
"Well, as I'm at work being a doctor, I thought Mr Brega's undescended testicle deserved my full attention."  
"Goodness."  
"Yeah, well."  
"Amazing you've stayed so down to earth, living your life in such glamour."  
"Why've you called the exam room line?"  
"You told me not to have you paged anymore."  
"Oh, are we playing that game where if I don't ask a question in exactly the right way, you give me a silly non-answer answer? What do you need, Fortunato?"  
"Tin opener, Montresor."  
"What?"  
"Where is it?"  
"Haven't the foggiest."  
"What good are you, then?"  
"No good at all, Fortunato. I'm infamous for it."  
"Errr."  
"Yes?"  
"Could you identify that sound you're making?"  
"What sound? The talking?"  
"My husband the humourist. No, that. Wet. Sound. What are you sucking on?"  
"Oh, ha. Lolly. I decided I deserve it after Mr Brega. Make it up to myself."  
"Indeed. Bring me one?"  
"Have you been similarly occupied?"  
"Looking for testicles?"  
"Silly question, I suppose."  
"Indeed. Bring me a lolly."  
"Ha, all right. I've got pink, yellow, and green."  
"Pink, John. Obviously."  
"Obviously."

...

Coming up Baker Street, humming a bit (new piece for John)(our new piece)(he isn’t my audience)(haven’t worked on it as I should have done, but will amend that once in the flat)(my fingers are buzzing with it). My arms are full of carrier bags, and I’m beginning to wonder how I’ll shift it all about to open the door. Could I set them all down? Must mind the wine, as it’s John’s favourite. Hear the sound of a window opening on my left and turn to see Portia Akram grinning down at me.

“All right, Watson?”

Grin back. I do love that name. “Hello Portia,” I nod, since my arms are full. “How are the Akram-Whitmans this evening?”

“Getting on all right,” Portia says with a cheeky bounce of her eyebrows, “Only we’re wondering why we haven’t been invited to your party.”

“My what?” Approach her window to hear her a bit better over the street noise.

Portia pulls a comically dismayed face and ruffles her hair, “I’ve spoiled the surprise, haven’t I? Your uncle came round to visit you, and we told him that you weren’t home, and he said he’d wait, since he was there for the party. And John came in a bit later, and there was all this thumping about like they were moving furniture, but it’s gone an hour now since they’ve stopped. You’re home a bit late, then, eh? Naughty boy!”

“An hour,” I repeat. “Been an hour since it went quiet.” From my core out to my skin, I go hot then cold then hot again. My ears are buzzing.

“Oh!” Portia’s voice brings me partway back to myself. I’ve dropped the bags, and I’m standing in a heap of shards and a puddle of wine. “Are you okay? You’ve gone pale.”

“It was a lie,” I manage through dry lips. Fumble for my phone in my pocket.

Portia frowns and cocks her head, “How do you mean?”

“It was a lie, Portia! A trap!” I shove my phone up at her, and she barely reaches my hand to take it. “My address book! Call G Lestrade! Tell him we need armed officers at Baker Street immediately! Stay in your flat!” The last I call over my shoulder, as I pelt toward my own flat as fast as I can.

Force myself to pause at the door. Breathe deeply. Whoever has laid this trap (whoever has made my John into bait) is in the flat this moment (please, please, please let them still be there), and if he wants a surprise party, he’ll have one (Christ, I’m going to collapse)(my legs are shaking). Key scores the lock as I try to put it in with trembling fingers. Shake out my hand a bit and try it again. Key goes in. Door opens silently. Edge in. Need a plan. Need a plan. Stall them until Lestrade turns up. Voices coming down the stairs now. Listen as I ascend as silently as I can.

“...don’t need to do this,” it’s John, but he sounds funny (painful to talk?)(injury to his mouth?)(drugged?)(need to get to him!)(don’t rush)(only make it worse). “We can help you.”

“It’s done!” comes the answer. Older man (my “uncle”). Smoker. I’ve heard this voice before. Have I? Yes, I have. Where? Think! No, it doesn’t matter about when or where (does it?!). “You think you can get out of this, Mr Watson. You can’t! You did my boy for murder. Life in prison! And him only twenty-three! You and that lanky poof did this to my Alec. And whenever he turns up, you’re going to get it. And then him.” And there’s a sharp breathy sound like John gasping (fear or pain) and my vision goes red for a moment. Shake it off. No time for blind fury.

Draw a shaky breath, and I open the door, “Some one here was looking for a lanky poof?”


	429. Chapter 429

“Oh god, I’m sorry Sherlock,” my eyes land on John as soon as I’m in the room. Knelt near the fireplace, hands on his head. There’s a syringe sticking out of his neck. Drugged then. His voice is syrupy. Soft, slow. Sticky. We will attend to that in a moment (just a moment).

“It’s all right, John. I know I’m a poof,” step toward him automatically. Hear a gun cocking behind me and turn toward the sound. I do know our antagonist. He’s meant to be in prison, though. The elder Cunningham from the Acton Lodge case. “Ah, Mr Cunningham. I thought I heard your voice. You wanted me?”

Cunningham raises his gun and points it at me, gesturing to the sofa with his free hand. “Take a seat, Mr Holmes. It’s time for the show.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I wink at John. He looks just this side of rolling his eyes (encouraging, somehow).

“Well I know all about it, and I say it’s time for you to take a seat, so’s we can get started.”

“You really aren’t very good at this, are you? You’ve got a problem with prison, and you think you’re going to execute me by gunshot in the middle of London at four in the afternoon? There’ll be police everywhere! You’ll be in handcuffs before you’ve had the chance to say ‘airtight alibi.’ You’re pointing me toward an unsecured piece of furniture in my own bloody house, which could be full of weapons. Might have a flamethrower in there, for all you know. Didn’t think to check, did you?”

Cunningham looks unsure. He glances between John and me. “Sit down and shut up,” he says, jerking his gun toward the sofa.

“You aren’t going to search me? You aren’t even going to search me? You know I knew you were in here, don’t you? Not exactly quiet, were you? You’ve been banging around up here for ages, and now you’ve got to the last little bit of your plan, and you’re determined to bungle it.” Look over at John, “They hardly needed us at Acton, did they?”

“All right!” Cunningham gestures with his gun again. “Get that coat off and turn out your pockets.”

Laugh incredulously, “Pockets?! You think I’ve got anything shoved in my pocket? You really do take me for a complete imbecile, don’t you? Pockets! I’m not a school boy who’s made off with some sweets, am I?”

Cunningham edges toward me, his gun still held out. Shift slightly, stepping toward him, but turning so he’ll have his back to John when he comes toward me (pray John is not too drugged to take a chance when he sees it)(he isn’t!)(getting slowly to his feet)(fairly steady as well). Cunningham approaches warily, looking me up and down as if he can just see my (nonexistent) hidden weapons through my clothing. John is stood up now, his hand on the poker, his eyes on me. In the distance, I can hear a siren. Swallow a smile and raise my arms out at either side. This seems to embolden Cunningham. He steps toward me and runs one hand down my side, under my coat. His gun hand is held at a right angle at his side.

“And the left side?” I say. Cunningham looks up at me, and I snap my head forward, bashing my forehead right into his nose. Hear a nasty crack with a little thrill of satisfaction. John springs forward much quicker than I would have thought him capable in that state and brings the poker down on Cunningham’s arm. Another crack and a scream, and he crumples, still clutching the gun.

“Right, then,” John says, sounding almost normal. He treads on Cunningham’s arm, producing another scream, “I’ll have that gun, please. Drop it, or the arm’s coming off.”

“I would do as he says,” I remark coolly. “He’ll rip your arm right out of the socket and make you eat it, if you get him cross enough.”

John laughs, “Flatterer.” Cunningham drops the gun. John bends and snatches it up. “Ta very much, Mr Cunningham.”

"My arm! My arm! You've broken my arm, you bastard!"

"I meant to," John’s voice is soft with rage and his mouth is tilted with one of his terrifying little grins (he is glorious!). “Now now, don't do yourself a mischief. You don't want a,” he turns to me. “What’s that thing where the bone comes out of the skin?”

“Compound fracture?”

John grins and shakes his head, “Brilliant. Yeah, compound fracture. You don’t want one of those on your hands, do you? So try and keep it still, or you may well have one. Unless I’m flattering myself, of course, but it sounded quite breaky, and it looks quite breaky."

"You can trust him," I tell Cunningham. "He's a doctor."

John snorts, "Could you not make me laugh in front of," he nods at Cunningham. "Trying to look cool. Okay?"

"You're insane! Both of you!" Cunningham keeps making to clutch his arm, but apparently the injury is too painful.

"We get that a lot," remarks John.

"So you're just a little bit over your head, then, aren't you?" I agree. Downstairs the front door bangs open. "You’re very lucky, Mr Cunningham; your deliverers are here." And Cunningham does quite look in need of a rescue, sprawled on the floor with his nose gushing blood down his chin and throat and his purpling arm stretched out in front of him with a rather nasty obtuse angle in very much the wrong place.

I could have done his other arm and both legs with a smile on my face (if I'd had the time). But the door of the flat flies open, and Lestrade runs in, gun at the ready, looking half-frantic with half a dozen officers behind him. His eyes bounce from Cunningham to John to me, taking in the syringe John's still got in his neck and the gun in his hand, as well as Cunningham's injuries. "Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Your timing is uncharacteristically impeccable."

Lestrade jerks his head at Cunningham and the officers all (such an unnecessary quantity of them)(better safe than sorry, he must have thought)(John should have a million billion officers at his command, if he needs them)(but he didn't need them)(only me) swarm past him to take Cunningham into custody (or to hospital, more likely).

Reach out my hand for John, and his is in mine before I've even looked round for him. It's cold. And his fingers are trembling, just slightly. I squeeze them as hard as I can, and he squeezes back even harder.

When the three of us are alone in the room, Lestrade holsters his gun and whips out his notepad, "All right gents," he clicks his pen. "Shall we take it from the top?"

“He’s given me something,” John says suddenly, squeezing my hand again. “I dnno what, but I’ve kept the syringe,” he touches his neck under the injection site (left side, just above the collar). “I feel funny. The erm,” he draws a little circle in the air with his forefinger and whistles, “The room is doing the thing. Oh!” and he sways where he stands.

Catch John under the arm and drag him into a chair, “For the love of god, get us an ambulance, Lestrade!” I spit. Kneel next to John’s chair and squeeze his hand, while Lestrade radios for an ambulance.

“Sorry Sherlock,” John says again. I shake my head, but I can’t speak. My legs are trembling again. “Sherlock, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” He squeezes hard. Tugs my arm. “I’m sorry.”

And I want to answer him. But I can’t.


	430. Chapter 430

“You don’t know? How is it that you don’t know?!” I am not going to throw anything. I am not going to be ejected from this hospital.

Doctor Adams shakes his head, “Without knowing exactly how much was administered, it’s difficult to project when it will have completely worn off. We’re still investigating that, Mr Holmes. We’ll keep him here for observation, but he’s been improving since he arrived, sir. It appears to be wearing off already.”

Reply through my teeth, “Appears to be?”

“Are you angry with me, Sherlock?” John tugs my coattail. I’d thought he was asleep. Whirl and drop into the chair next to his bed to take his hand. There are tears in his eyes.

“No, John. Of course I’m not angry with you.”

“Mr Holmes,” Doctor Adams interjects, “I’ll be back to discuss the discharge plan soon.” Social skills of a turnip. Wave him away without looking, and the door slides open and shut behind me.

John drags me nearer to him with a handful of my shirt and buries his face against my chest, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t know he was there!”

Stroke his hair and swallow hard, but my voice is trembling when I reply, “I know you didn’t, John. It’s all right.”

John makes a little gasping sound, like a sob and clutches me more tightly, “‘Mnot as good as you are. Didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Sherlock! I’m sorry. I try. I tried. I try to-I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

“It’s all right, John. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

John sighs, nods. Strokes my chest, “You saved me.”

Kiss his hair, pat his back, “We saved each other, John. Matched set.”

John nods again, “Yeah.” He falls silent over a fit of the hiccoughs and I rock him as best I can from my perch at the edge of his bed and watch tears slide off the end of my nose into his hair. “You saved me,” John whispers presently. “Whoosh.”

“Whoosh, John?” My voice breaks over his name. Clear my throat. Don’t want to upset him. More.

John nods and draws back slightly to look into my face, “You,” he pauses to allow a few hiccoughs, grimacing through them. “Sorry. You’re my hero. Don’t tell me not to say, okay?” he shakes the handful of my shirt he’s still gripping. I nod. “Don’t tell me it isn’t real, okay?”

“I won’t, John. I’m sorry.”

“It’s real to me!”

“I know, John.”

“You saved me,” he drops his head against my chest again. “I didn’t make you into it. You are. You are. It’s not stupid, Sherlock! You’re my hero. You.” John releases my shirt to prod me hard in the chest.

“It’s not stupid, John.”

John shakes his head, “Not stupid. I’m stupid; you’re not stupid.”

Squeeze him tighter, “You’re not stupid, John.”

“Don’t take it like that; nearly everybody is,” His voice sounds funny (sounds like me; he’s quoting me)(shame, shame, prickling shame)(how was I ever such a fool?). John squeezes his eyes shut and nestles against me. After a few seconds, he lets out a high-pitched snore. Edge a bit further onto his bed and hold him tightly and kiss his hair. He smells wrong, but it’ll wear off soon (so they tell me). “No!” I startle up at the outburst. John pushes himself away from me, “Can’t go to sleep! Got to tell Sherlock! There’s some one here!”

“I’m right here, John. It’s all right. It’s over.”

John frowns at me, then beams and settles against me, “You saved me. Forgot,” he shuts his eyes. “Sorry. Won’t forget again. Write it down for me. Please?” Feel for my pad and pen in my trouser pocket and when I find the pad, I brace it against my knee and jot, ‘You are safe. Sherlock is with you.’ Tear out the page and hand it to John. He nods with satisfaction and crumples the bit of paper in his hand without looking at it. “I’ll remember,” he mutters. “You saved me. Yeah. Mm.” He opens his eyes and looks into mine for a long moment. “Mmm,” shuts them again. “I won’t forget again.”

“It’s all right, John.” Kiss his hair. “I’ll remind you. You’re all right.”

“‘Mall right,” he murmurs. He makes another little sigh, and he’s asleep.

...

I was a bit confused when I woke up. Took me a moment to remember where I was. I hadn’t woken up in hospital since before. Well. Before I came home. Not a very pleasant few seconds. Only a few seconds, though. Spotted Sherlock’s head and shoulders about halfway down the bed. He was asleep by my knees. Most of him was still in his chair, but he had his head pillowed on one arm, the other arm stretched out toward me, as if he’d fallen asleep holding my hand. I pushed up on my elbow and reached down to stroke his hair.

Sherlock sighed, stirred, looked up at me, and smiled, “John.”

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He crawled up onto the bed, and I pulled him close and kissed him, “Does it sound silly to tell you that I missed you?”

“Not a bit silly, John.” I stroked his back, and he sighed and hummed and sagged against me, “Oh, that’s lovely, John.”

“Mmm, rather nice on this end as well,” I kissed his hair. “Seems like ages since I’ve hugged you properly.” Sherlock hummed and nodded his agreement, so I squeezed him a bit harder, and he squeezed back. “I really only remember bits of last night-”

“You were brilliant!” Sherlock put in. “Even more than usual.”

I grinned and kissed him again, “Well ta, lovely. I have a vague sort of notion that you were quite brilliant yourself.” Sherlock grunted and shrugged. I paused a moment, but that seemed all the answer he was inclined to give. “We have that effect on each other,” I said after a bit.

Sherlock drew back to look into my face, then kissed me, “Yes, John. So we do.”


	431. Chapter 431

John’s breath is coming in little grunting gasps, hot and damp against my shoulder. He lowers his face to my neck and dots biting, sucking kisses on my throat between jaw and shoulder. He’s got two days of stubble and each kiss rasps my skin exquisitely. Roll my head back for him, and he tightens the hand that’s tugging on my hair and thrusts into me harder. Close, close. So close.

“Please John, oh oh fuck, John, please!”

“Please what, gorgeous?” Sharp tug on my hair, and I shudder hard (close close). John shifts his hand from my waist to the small of my back (drag of his fingers on my skin is delicious)(everything is delicious)(everything is John and warmth and sweat and it’s all delicious). I don’t reply, and John stills his hips. “Please what, gorgeous?” He tugs my hair again, raising my face to look into my eyes (want to shut them)(don’t dare). “Please John, fuck me harder and make me come?” he offers, stroking the small of my back. I shiver. He smiles, “Say it, Sherlock and I will.”

I squirm. Draw a deep breath and shut my eyes, but John pulls my hair until I open them again. Then he drops his hand between us and begins to stroke my cock, smiling expectantly into my face. Gasp and shiver, and John laughs low and sweet and gives me a little squeeze, “Say it for me, lovely. I want to hear you say it, Sherlock. Do it for me.”

“Please John,” my voice is so small, but John resumes thrusting (he's pleased with me!) and adds a little twist to his stroking hand on my cock, rolling his thumb over my foreskin (he is so clever with me)(so clever, so clever).

“Yes?”  
“Please, John fuck me harder and make me c-ahhhh!-come!” John punctuates the end of my sentence with a particularly artful rolling thrust of his hips, and I half gasp, half shout as I bury my face against his shoulder and come over his hand.

“Oh Sherlock! Gorgeous,” John kisses me, sucks my bottom lip, clutches me to him with the hand on my waist. “That’s it, lovely. Mmm so gorgeous, Sherlock.” Squeeze my eyes shut and clasp the back of John’s neck with both hands. “So beautiful. Fuck, Sherlock, you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

John rocks to shift his angle and thrusts hard, bouncing me against him with his come-slick hand on my hip. I shudder through the prickle of an aftershock, and John tenses under me and comes with a groan that he buries in my neck so that I can feel it, warm and damp and shivery down my throat and in my chest. Slide my hand up and down his back. His heart is pounding between us. I feel it in my chest, nearly as if it were my own. John hugs me, kisses my cheek, lays his head on my shoulder. We wait for our breathing to slow and steady.

“Well,” John sags back after a bit.

“Yes.”

John grasps himself just under me and begins to withdraw slowly. I lift off and flop next to him with a little sigh. John wraps an arm round my shoulders and draws me near him. I slouch against John, and he turns to kiss my hair. “Christ, Sherlock! That was...I think I’ve just lost about ten pounds and some brain matter,” he lets out a high giggle that sets me off giggling as well, and we’re both quite giddy, John hugging me to him even while we laugh. “Ohhh,” John moans when we’ve recovered ourselves a bit, “We need a bath. You’re all smeary.”

Give him a nudge, “So are you. And we’ll have a bath in a bit, but we’re still convalescing. I’m most closely resembling an extremely contented jelly, and you’re trying to regrow your brain.”

That sends my John into another little fit of hilarity, and he brings me along with him. We don’t manage to wheeze ourselves to a stuttering stop until well after my stomach is aching and my eyes watering. John holds me throughout, his chest rising and falling against me as he laughs into my hair.


	432. Chapter 432

History

I’m not sure if any of you are aware. You’re probably not. I hope you’re not, come to that. Be a bit weird. Anyway, it’s a bit of an anniversary over here at 221 Baker Street. On this day in 2010, I first clapped eyes on Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t and don’t believe in love at first sight. As Sherlock might say, it is a capital mistake to theorise without data. If love is going to mean something, it has to be based on more than first impressions. That said, those were some quite impressive first impressions.  
I didn’t know what Sherlock was going to mean to me that first time I saw him. It was only a few minutes. But I did know that I wanted to see a lot more of him. Fortunately for me, he wanted the exact same thing, so here we are! My partnership with Sherlock is the absolute best thing I have ever done. In so many ways, I would not be where I am today without him. I might not be anywhere at all, actually. Thank you for everything, Sherlock. May we live to see another fifty years of the 29th of January.

Comments (34)

Sherlock Holmes:  
Another hundred, John. To be sure. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
And you make it sound as though you were so instantly enchanted. I believe you first described me as ‘certainly arrogant’ ‘looks about 12’ ‘a bit public school’ and ‘mad.’ 

John Watson:  
I also said you were charming and likeable. And I thought it’d be a bit much to call you the most beautiful and engaging person I’d ever seen, even though I was thinking it. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
No less than my just deserts. 

John Watson:  
He’s quoting that from memory by the way, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t ever let him tell you he isn’t sentimental. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Shut up, John. 

John Watson:  
Make me. 

Mrs Hudson:  
Congratulations darlings!

John Watson:  
Thanks, Mrs H! 

Mike Stamford:  
I take full credit for all of this, mind!

John Watson:  
Credit where it’s due, Mike! 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I like to imagine I had a little to do with it. 

John Watson:  
Most engaging, most beautiful, etc, etc. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
And don’t you forget it. 

John Watson:  
Couldn’t if I tried, love. 

Portia:  
Hello Watsons! Did you get the flowers?

Sherlock Holmes:  
Yes, they're lovely. Thank you. 

John Watson:  
Yeah, thanks!

Harry Watson:  
John, would you stop bloody flirting and answer your bloody phone?!

Molly Hooper:  
Not likely. 

John Watson:  
I texted you an hour ago, Harry! And I called you this morning. 

Harry Watson:  
...I’ve been carrying around Karen’s phone all day. This is embarrassing. Sorry Jack. I’ll call you when I get home. 

Harry Watson:  
*John. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Don’t be surprised if you get voicemail. He may be busy by that time. 

Molly Hooper:  
You don’t need to tell people that!

Harry Watson:  
Seconded!!!! DX

Sherlock Holmes:  
We can say whatever we like here. It’s our blog. Anyway, I didn’t tell anyone anything. 

John Watson:  
Generous of you to call it ‘our blog’ this time, instead of just yours. Anyway. Moving briskly along. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
You’ll note he did not contradict me. 

John Watson:  
I thought you said you didn’t say anything.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Very charming nonsense, John. Very charming. Anyway, put your laptop away and come here. I need your dextrous surgeon’s fingers over here at once. 

Portia:  
Don’t forget to shut your windows ;)

Sherlock Holmes:  
They’re shut now; it’s January. And I was only asking him to help me to uncork this wine bottle. I’ve put the corkscrew in crooked, and the cork’ll go to bits in the bottle, if we aren’t careful. John, come and help me!

John Watson:  
I’m just coming, love. That’s my cue, everyone. Delicate operation to attend to. Good night!


	433. Chapter 433

You get a sense for when you're being watched, living with Sherlock Holmes, so I wasn’t surprised to look up from cleaning my teeth and find Sherlock's reflection in the bathroom mirror. I grinned at him round a mouthful of foam and dribbled a bit down my chin.

He smiled, "Nearly ready for bed, I see." Sherlock himself was still fully dressed.

I spat into the basin and rinsed my mouth, "Yep."

"Teeth brushed. And you've had a wash; I can see where your hairline is damp from it. And your neck." He sniffed the air, "And I smell your soap. Your taste in fragrance is surprisingly sweet, John."

I turned to face him, leaning back against the sink, my arms folded, "You keep giving me stuff that makes me smell like a beehive."

Sherlock's expression flickered, but he swallowed his laughter, "Nicely in your jimjams as well." I raised my eyebrows at that, but he pressed on, "Those have just come out of the laundry, if I recall correctly." He leaned in and sniffed again. "New washing powder. Lavender. I like that. Soothing." He reached out and slid a couple of fingers down my sleeve from shoulder to elbow, pressing and rubbing the cloth at the elbow between his fingertips. "Does nice things for the fabric, too. This is very cosy."

"Same old toothpaste, though."

His smile broadened, "Indeed. You might be asleep inside of ten minutes."

"Reckon so."

Sherlock drew a bit closer so that I had to look up at him to meet his eye. I love it when he does that. "Don't suppose you'd like to come and catch a serial killer with me instead."

His eyes were bright, and I could smell both his shirt starch and his sweat. "Oh god yes." There is nothing like Sherlock's smirk when he's convinced me to do exactly what I want to do.

Fifteen minutes later, we were sat in the back of a cab, Sherlock silently and furiously texting beside me, a little grin on his face. When he tucked his phone away into the breast pocket of his jacket, I held out my hand, and he took it straight away. Sherlock's fingers twitched a bit in mine, and he fairly wiggled in his seat with excitement. After a bit, he turned to me and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek. I love it when he does that.

I grinned, "Look at you all happy."

He arched an eyebrow and smiled, leaning back in his seat, "It's not decent."

"You do love being Sherlock Holmes, don't you?"

Sherlock slid toward me until his knee bumped mine, then leaned in to whisper to me, his lips against my ear, "I do." He drew a ticklish breath through his nose and carried on in a coarse voice that prickled down my neck, down my spine, inside out my gut, "Everything I do with you is my favourite thing to do, John, but this most especially, I love it. I love striding off into the night with you. Mmm, you love it too, don't you?" He pressed my hand at that, whisking his thumb back and forth on my palm, "'Course you do. That sense of purpose and justice. That rightness. Knowing yourself to be slotted quite into your proper place.” He sighed and swallowed, and I heard him wet his lips, “This is what I meant to be, you know. When I invented my job.”

I cocked my head to look at him, “Really?”

He nodded, “You make me feel so perfectly myself, John.”

“Matched set.” I pressed his hand, “I feel the same.”

Sherlock kissed my cheek, gentler this time, then sat back with a little sigh. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out at once and began texting again. By the bluish light diffused across his handsome face, I saw rather than heard him murmur, “I love being Sherlock Holmes.”


	434. Chapter 434

“That was brilliant. Amazing.”

“We were brilliant,” Sherlock corrected me. We were stood a little ways away from the crime scene, waiting for Lestrade to finish with his boring post-arrest stuff and send us home.

I stroked Sherlock’s elbow and looked up at him, “You were incredible. You’re brilliant.”

Sherlock edged closer, his head lowered. He had an inviting little smile on, like he wanted me to say more. I’m a terribly obliging husband, so I did, “Sherlock.” I waited for him to look up at me, squeezing his elbow gently. When he met my eye, I smiled at him and carried on just a little above a whisper, “God, I love watching you like that, gorgeous. You are so, so fantastic.”

Sherlock made a tiny sigh, “Thank you, John.”

I squeezed his arm, “Do you know what I want, Sherlock, my lovely love?” Sherlock shook his head, and I squeezed again, waiting.

“What is it?” he answered, glancing round for Lestrade. “What can I do for you?”

I lowered my voice even more, and Sherlock inclined his head toward me to catch my words, “I want you to take me home and fuck me.” Sherlock’s breath caught and a little pink flush started in his cheeks. He bit his lip. He is so fucking beautiful, I can hardly stand it sometimes. I stroked his arm and squeezed it again. “Can you do that for me, Sherlock?”

He nodded, “Yes, John.”

“Gorgeous.” We smiled at each other for a long moment, and Sherlock reached up to stroke my hand that rested on his arm.

Lestrade appeared just then, "Nicely done, gents. Very tidily managed. We call that a result, eh?" He clapped Sherlock on the back and grinned round at us both.

Sherlock coughed rather dramatically, to camouflage the deepening flush on his face, I believe. He must have been having a hard time of it, since he didn’t bother himself about making any thinly-veiled references to poor Lestrade’s wretched timing. "Thank you," Sherlock managed through his coughing fit.

I grinned, "Yeah, ta Greg. Thanks for bringing us in."

Lestrade nodded, "Glad I did." He checked his watch. "Well, bit late. Or early, I should say for a nightcap. But I could give you a lift home. We might go to Speedy's? Get some breakfast. It's nearly sunrise." He turned to Sherlock, "I've got my BMW; you wouldn't have to ride in the police car." Sherlock resumed his dramatic coughing, one fist held to his mouth and shook his head.

I stepped in for him, "Actually Greg, we were just saying we're quite eager to get to bed, right Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded, still coughing.

Lestrade frowned at Sherlock, "You okay? You need some water?"

Sherlock shook his head and patted his chest, "Air went down the wrong way," he said in a convincingly hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, "I'm fine. Thank you."

"Maybe you're getting my cold," I suggested.

"Maybe."

"Well, as you can see," I turned to Greg. "I need to get this one in bed." I patted Sherlock on the back and felt him sigh under my hand.

"Raincheck, then," Greg said. "I'll speak to the missus. But then we ought to make it a meal and not a drink. Last week, she told me if I put another soda and lemon in front of her, she'd have to tip it over my head," he clapped Sherlock on the back again, and Sherlock sort of jumped.

"Yes, yes, fine, dinner, no soda, no lemon, got it. Maybe tonight. Or next week, since I'm ill apparently. Sorry Greg, must dash. You heard John; he’s trying to have me in bed immediately. Goodbye!" And he grasped my coat sleeve and towed me away, walking at top speed.

"Er, okay. Bye," Greg called after us, and I waved and shrugged, grinning.

"Well that was a tiny bit obvious," I said, when we were out of earshot.

"Please," Sherlock waved the idea away and stepped up to the kerb to hail a cab, "He had no idea, going from his blathering about Molly's breakfast or whatever it was."

I pulled my sleeve out of Sherlock's grip, took his hand, and kissed it, "Seems like your manners suffer when you're hard up for it, mm? Perhaps we should have found ourselves a coat cupboard. Not too late, I suppose. We might find somewhere nearby and make it a quick one, then go and sleep off that cold?" Sherlock gave me such a wide-eyed look of supplication that I laughed and relented, "But maybe we'll enjoy ourselves more at home."

"I think so," he said quietly.

I pressed Sherlock’s hand and kissed his palm, “We’re going to take such good care of each other, aren’t we, lovely?”

Sherlock swallowed and bowed his head, his face colouring prettily again, “Yes, John.” God, I love it when he says that.


	435. Chapter 435

“Ah yeah, Sherlock, that’s good. Ohhhfuck that’s good...so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. Christ, yes! Ahhh, like that. Mmm.” John’s thighs are flexing, trembling. The tip of his flushed, bouncing cock is shining with precome, and my mouth waters looking at it.

“John.”

John’s answer comes half as a gasp, punctuated by an extra little roll of his hips “Yeah, Sherlock? Yes, love?”

“John, I want to suck you. Please, John.”

“Oh Sherlock,” John shuts his eyes at that and rocks slower but harder on top of me and gives his cock a squeeze (lovely flexing forearms)(mmm)(drop of precome rolls down the head of his cock and lands on his fingers)(mmmmmm)(swallow, wet my lips)(god I want to suck him!). John opens his eyes, “Sherlock, you look so fucking gorgeous spread out under me, lovely. Mmmm so ahhh so fucking gorgeous. I want to watch you come, lovely. That all right, my lovely? Hmm? Yeah? Will you come under me? Will you come in me, Sherlock?”

John strokes my side with his free hand as he speaks, his left still busy on his cock (very slow firm strokes)(must be quite close). His hand is light and gentle on my side, and his sweet, warm, raspy voice is light and gentle everywhere (when he talks to me that way, I swear I can feel it in my throat, my chest, my skin, my hair, my eyes, my tongue, my skull, my brain), and I would do absolutely anything for that sweet voice.

“Yes, John! Please, yes!”

“Oh brilliant, lovely! That’s brilliant. Mmm, Sherlock. So fucking beautiful.” When John raises my hand from his hip, I know what he’s going to do before he does it (of course I know how all of this ends)(mmmmmm)(knowing isn’t the point)(how strange and marvellous to know a thing from start to finish and love it anyway). John slows his rocking still more to lick my palm (squirm at the touch of his mouth and feel an answering shudder in his thighs on either side of me)(mmmmm)(god his tongue is so wet!) then wraps my hand around him. “Touch my cock, Sherlock mmmmnahhhyess, touch me!” John holds my hand around him tightly and thrusts into it until I begin to stroke his cock (firm and slow, just as he likes, sweeping my thumb over the head on the downstroke). “MmmnahfuckyesSherlocklikethat!” his eyes are shut again. “Yes, Sherlock like that, and I’m going to come on you, gorgeous! Is that what you want? You want me to come all over you, lovely? ”

“Yes, John! Please!” Squeeze him tighter, and when he opens his eyes and fixes them on mine, I can see he only has a few seconds left (yes, please, John!). Thrust up into his rocking hips to help him along and come with a little shout, shuddering hard.

“Oh god, yes, lovely! Oh Sherlock! That’s--ohgodSherlockohfuck! Ohhh! Ahhh Sher-!” John trembles and clenches around me, and his sweet voice cracks on my name as his come splashes over me.

…

On wobbling legs, John staggers out of the bathroom with his wet towel and hits the bed with a heavy thump as soon as he’s in range of it. He’s gentle and graceful as ever when he begins to clean me up, though.

“There you are lovely,” John tosses the towel at his night table and plants a little kiss on my soft cock, giggling at my answering shiver (still sensitive). “Though by rights, you ought to be doing that for me.”

“You made the mess; you clean it.” Pull him to me and bury my nose in his hair (still sweaty)(mmmmmm)(lovely).

John kisses my chest, his eyes already sagging with sleep, “Mmm? That’s the rule now, is it?”

“For you,” Wrap an arm tight around his shoulders. “You clear up your messes, and I’ll clear-” John laughs so very hard at what he supposes the end of my sentence must be that it isn’t worth trying to get it out over the hilarity. Try and fix him with a stern look, but his eyes are shut, so I settle for tutting into his hair, “You’re very giddy this morning.”

“Mmm,” John kisses my chest again. “Knackered. And anyway, that’s what being well-fucked does to a man.”

“Hear, hear.” For some reason, that sets John off laughing again (and of course I can’t hear him without laughing, myself). It’s lovely, actually. I can feel his belly trembling against mine as he laughs. He falls asleep mid-giggle, with me not far behind.


	436. Chapter 436

She sneaked up on me. She always does that. I really shouldn’t wear both my earbuds in the lab. She sneaked up on me, and now she’s got her arm round my waist. I'm really not all that fond of hugs.

I pull out my earbud in time to hear Petrina say, “Mummy!” as she lands a hand lightly and briefly on my front. Ergh.

“Ooh. Hello,” edge backward out from under her and put my back to the bench, arms akimbo, so she can’t try it again. “What can I do for you, Petrina?” It can't actually be anything real, though. Her department's got nothing to do with mine.

“Just came by for a catch-up, Hoopy. I haven’t seen you in ages. Want to pop out for a coffee?”

“Can’t,” I say at once, looking round for Sherlock who is quite conspicuous in his attempt to pretend not to exist. “I’ve promised to have lunch with Sherlock.” I haven’t, and anyway it’s only just gone eleven, quite a ways off from lunchtime. Not my best save. Sherlock still pretending to be a bit of lab equipment of course, because he’s pants at interacting with the humans. So am I, come to that.

Petrina hooks her arm through my elbow and tows me across the room toward Sherlock, “Oh and Daddy, too, how lovely!”

Sherlock’s head snaps up so fast at that ‘Daddy’ that I nearly burst out laughing. He rises from his bench and comes to meet us in the centre of the room, “No, I’m not Greg!”

“You’re Hoopy’s detective boyfriend, aren’t you? Oooh!” she gives his left hand a playful slap and grins, “Husband now! Good boy!” Petrina is also pants with humans. We’re all pants. It’s an epidemic.

“No, no, I’m not her husband!” Sherlock huffs, “Molly, this person is under a mistake!” I open my mouth to clarify, but Petrina cuts me off, clucking.

“Put my foot in, haven’t I? Sensitive subject?” she gives my arm a little pat.

“My husband is Greg, Petrina. He’s a police detective; Sherlock is a private detective.”

“Yes, there is actually more than one detective living in London. I’m somebody else’s husband!” He seems sort of indignant that I didn’t mention that in my explanation. Well he’s generally quite wet-hennish at the moment.

Petrina laughs, “Oh, I really have put my foot in!”

Sherlock frowns and starts to edge between me and Petrina, as if she might be violent, “Are you ready to go, Molly? We’ve said we’ll meet John for lunch, and we’re nearly late.”

“John’s your bloke, then, Molly?” Petrina asks.

Sherlock actually seems to be ruffling now. He’s really got a gift for indignation, “No, John’s my bloke! Her bloke is Greg. Didn’t you hear her?”

Petrina tips her head back and laughs and laughs, “All the good ones, eh Hoopy?” She gives me a sympathetic grimace and makes for the door, “Maybe tomorrow for lunch, then? We really must have our chat. See you later!”

Sherlock watches her out of the room, still aghast, “Why on earth was that dreadful woman calling you ‘Hoopy’?” he asks when she’s gone.

I grin. Somehow Sherlock’s shock at the situation makes it all good fun, instead of hideously embarrassing, “She heard Sally doing it, and she thinks it’s a general sort of thing.”

“Oh yes, I keep forgetting you’ve befriended Sally. Even Sally’s better than that.”

Roll my eyes, “Lovely. Very nice.”

He doesn’t pay any mind to the scolding, of course. “God,” Sherlock glances toward the door with a theatrical little shudder. “Some people are so liberal with their accusations of heterosexuality. She’s made her plans for you, hasn’t she? If you want to avoid her, I suppose you’re going to have to eat lunch in the morgue tomorrow.” The absurdity of that speech does away with the last scrap of my composure, and I laugh until the tears come into my eyes. Katie starts her dancing about at that, so I sit down on a lab stool, still laughing and press my hand to the kickiest bit.

Sherlock always gets a bit embarrassed when I do that. He turns away to pull on his coat, “Come on, then. I really will take you to lunch.”

“Just a tic,” Katie’s still kicking, and I’ve got that laugh ache in my cheeks, which is actually quite nice. Seems like a moment to savour. Sherlock is watching me out of the tail of his eye and reluctantly grinning. “We’re not lunching in the morgue, are we?”


	437. Chapter 437

Come in here.   
-SH 

 

Here being the bedroom. 

 

Obviously, John.   
-SH 

 

You have some sort of bedroom-related assignment for me, I suppose. 

 

I need you, John. Come and sort me out.   
-SH 

 

Maybe later? I’m still a bit sore from last night. 

 

So many layers of presumption.  
-SH 

 

There are a good many uncompanionable things in bed with me, John.   
-SH 

 

Come and remove them, so that I can sleep.   
-SH 

 

Uncompanionable things like 14 books, 2 logbooks, a composition pad, a pen, a pencil, your laptop and the crumbs of that half packet of jammy dodgers you finished in there, even though I just put fresh sheets on?

 

Mind your Oxford commas, John.   
-SH 

 

Two cats and sundry other items as well. Please help. Weak with exhaustion.   
-SH 

 

You wouldn’t need help with chucking all that rubbish out of bed, if you’d work at the table, like a normal person. 

 

Not a normal person, never have been. You would hate that. And the flat is freezing, so naturally I got into bed, where it’s warm.   
-SH 

 

The flat isn’t freezing, provided you’ve got some clothes on. 

 

But I haven’t.   
-SH 

 

Well, there’s your problem. You can’t swan around in the altogether in the middle of winter and expect to be toasty warm. 

 

I see it differently, John. My singular perspective is key to my greatness and capacity for achievement.   
-SH 

 

Anyway, stop stalling and come and cosy with me.   
-SH 

 

Cosy is a verb now, is it?

 

Always has been, Mr Grammarian Anti-Punctuarian. ‘Cosy up.’  
-SH 

 

That’s a colloquialism. 

 

Still counts. I’m a descriptivist.   
-SH 

 

Liar. 

 

Come in here. If you take all the things out of the bed, I’ll let you be the little spoon.   
-SH 

 

Well that does sweeten the pot. But you’re changing the sheets next. 

 

Deal.   
-SH 

…

 

“Have you ever actually changed the sheets, love?”  
“Not to my recollection. I can’t think why you suggested such a thing.”  
“So you’re planning to renege on our bargain?”  
“Of course. But I also made you the little spoon, which is my rightful place, and more than enough compensation for two minutes of huffy tidying.”  
“I wasn’t huffy!”  
“You were a bit. When you got to the crumbs. Anyway, enough about all that boring stuff, John. Assume the position.”  
“Ha, you make cuddling sound so ominous, lovely.”  
“And it never puts you off. Move your arm; mine wants to go there.”  
“Bossy.”  
“You like it.”  
“You do.”  
“Shhhhh, John. I’m sleeping.”

…

Hullo love,   
I’ve just had a text from Molly that made me laugh, and you started laughing along with me in your sleep. Which made me laugh harder, which made you laugh harder. I’m surprised you didn’t wake. You’re still spooning me, by the way. Your head’s on my shoulder, and I can feel you breathing against my back and on my neck. It’s really very lovely. How did you put it? We’re having a cosy? We’re cosying up. I think that’s what you said. You’ve got a way with words. And a way with cosying. You’re talented at everything, really. All good things, anyway. Lucky me. I’m in on it.   
Yours,   
John


	438. Chapter 438

“Are you having me on?”  
“Say again?”  
“I say are you having me on, Watson?”  
“You’re going to have to be more specific, John. Mmm, although I hope so, if it means you’ll carry on speaking to me in that tone and calling me by that name.”  
“Ha, what’s all this then, lovely?”  
“Oh, my parcel has arrived! Good!”  
“Parcel of what?”  
“I suspect you know, going from your expression. Opening my parcels now, are you? Tut tut, John. Dreadful manners on your part.”  
“Why’ve we had a massive box of condoms in the post?”  
“It was a bargain, John! Five hundred condoms for only a hundred and eighty quid. Very economical.”  
“Ah. Economical. Like the mugs.”  
“Yes, like the mugs! You were terribly ungrateful about the mugs as well.”  
“I still don’t see why you went and got eighty mugs. Nor why you went and got five hundred condoms!”  
“Bargain, John!”  
“You mean you were shopping online in the middle of the night after you’d been up for thirty hours, and your brain was all loopy. I do like it when you pretend to ever consider how much things cost ever. Anyway, Mr Clever, did it occur to you that condoms go off?”  
“Oh.”  
“Yes, oh. How long do you suppose it’ll take us to go through five hundred condoms?”  
“Hmmm. Well figuring at two a week-”  
“Which is generous!”  
“Thank you, John; I’m aware of the schedule. Figuring at two a week, it’ll take us-”  
“About five years.”  
“Four point eight one, I was going to say.”  
“Precision at all costs. Right, well. Condoms only last two years.”  
“Ah.”  
“Yes.”  
“I didn’t think of that.”  
“No. And you’re not going to suggest we have two and a half times more-”  
“No, I’m certainly not! Errrr. Hmm.”  
“So if we can use about a third of these-”  
“Closer to half than a third. Two hundred and eight, if we say they’ll all go off exactly two years from today, which strains credibility.”  
“I know it sounds like I’m taking the piss, but I promise you I’m not. It really is delightful to see what you decide to quibble over, lovely. It really, truly is.”  
“How gratifying.”  
“So. That makes about a pound each, doesn’t it?”  
“Approximately.”  
“Not terribly economical, I’m afraid.”  
“Yes, all right, John. Thank you.”  
“And we’ve still got to sort out what to do with two hundred and ninety two condoms.”  
“Hand them out as party favours at your birthday party. If we’ve got six guests, that’s forty-eight each. That’s only two a month to get rid of them before the expiry date. Do you think our nearest acquaintances can manage that?”  
“Am I having a birthday party?”  
“Unless you can think of something else to do with all of these.”  
“My brilliant husband. Done it again, love.”  
“Well, I am a proper genius, John.”  
“‘Course you are. And what about a kiss to celebrate? ...mmm lovely.”  
“Mmm. Lovely. You know, John, all this maths and kissing puts me in the mood for a bit of penetrative intercourse.”  
“Oh my god. Please tell me that you’re joking.”  
“Yes, of course I’m joking, John. Obviously.”  
“I’m really starting to lose track of what’s obviously a joke around here, love.”  
“You can’t puzzle it out from context?”  
“You would think I could, wouldn’t you?”

…

“Wait, okay. Promise me please you aren’t actually going to throw me a birthday party for the express purpose of giving our friends condoms.”  
“Oh for god’s sake, John! Of course I’m not.”  
“I could probably bring them into work. I think the gynaecologist goes round to a student health centre at some college or other a couple of times a month, so I could give them to her to bring with her.”  
“I assumed you would bring them into work, John. Seems the obvious solution”  
“Before you go putting on airs about the obvious solution, you want to remind yourself how we got into a situation requiring an obvious solution.”  
“Situation seems like a bit of an exaggeration, John. I’d say it’s more like a conundrum. Though I should hardly be surprised at an exaggeration from you.”  
“Right, stop it now before I laugh myself to death, Sherlock. A bit of compassion for your poor husband, please.”  
“All right, then. I’m feeling magnanimous.”  
“You’re the picture of it, lovely.”  
“Yes, I know.”  
“We’re not going to get an oil drum of lube by post tomorrow, are we?”  
“Our brand doesn’t come in bulk, actually.”  
“Well, thank heaven for small mercies.”


	439. Chapter 439

When I stepped into the flat that afternoon, I at first thought that it was empty. It was cool and dark and nearly silent. Nearly. I noticed the sound of the tapping of Sherlock’s fingertips on the screen of his phone before I spotted Sherlock himself. He was bundled up in the duvet from our bed. All I could see of him were some wisps of hair, the tip of his nose, and one arm, which was poked out of the bundle of duvet and clutching his phone.

"Hullo love!"

At the sound of my voice, Sherlock dropped his phone onto the back of the sofa. The ball of bedding distorted as he craned round toward the door and looked at me. "There you are," Sherlock shook back the duvet from his face with the air of some one who's squandered fruitless hours on an unsuccessful manhunt.

"Here I am!" I hung up my coat and came to administer Sherlock's hello kiss.

“At last,” Sherlock flung an arm out to in invitation. I toed off my shoes. And after a moment’s consideration, I undid my trousers and stepped out of them, before I got onto the sofa under Sherlock’s extended arm. Sherlock draped the end of the duvet round my shoulder, pulled me closer to him and kissed me on the cheek, “Hello John.” He kissed my ear, then murmured into it, “You’ve been ages.”

I shivered and turned to catch him on the mouth, “Not ages. The usual amount of time.”

“Far, far too long, John.” Sherlock parted his knees and tugged me again until I was flush against him, “I wanted you very much. Mmm, your tardiness has earned you a pressing, John.” He kissed my cheek again, “What have you to say for yourself?”

“I’m not tardy, but I’ll take the pressing.”

“I do not recall offering an alternative,” Sherlock’s hand began to insinuate itself under my shirttail, and I started a bit when his skin touched mine.

“Your hands are freezing!”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock squeezed at my middle and nuzzled the back of my neck, “Yes, my extremities go cold, when I haven’t got any nice husband-y bits to poke them into and keep them warm. How is it that you’re so warm, when you’ve just come in? That’ll be witchcraft. Tut tut, John. Your pressing is going to be dreadfully severe.”

“You’re cold because you’ve been sat idle on the sofa all day.”

Sherlock pinched me, “I’ve solved five cases today, actually!”

I caught his wrist and pushed his hand away, “Really? Five cases?”

“Yes!”

“That’s amazing!”

Sherlock tucked in his chin, “Oh, do you think so?”

I nodded and kissed his cheek, “Yes, very.”

“I did do them on the sofa,” he confessed.

“Even so,” I kissed him again. “Hang on, did you take clients in the duvet?”

Sherlock shook his head, “One by email, two by text, one by Skype, and Lestrade on the phone, because he insisted on the phone, because he’s difficult.”

“Marvellous,” I kissed his hair. “Still, you ought to get up and about, though. Stretch your legs. Get your blood circulating. What about a little constitutional, mmm? That’ll warm up your extremities, I think.”

“A little constitutional? I do like the sound of that,” Sherlock nosed my ear and slid his hand from my belly up to my chest. “Stretching and circulating? I like that. There are any number of things I might propose.”

"'Constitutional', I said, not 'coat cupboard'." I leaned into him and kissed his cheek, “A walk, lovely. You want to get out of the flat for a bit. Fresh air, mm?”

“Fresh air? Oh John, breathing’s boring,” Sherlock nipped at my earlobe, and I jumped.

“You don’t think I can make it interesting for you, lovely?” I got a nice, silky handful of Sherlock’s hair and gave it a good tug. “Do you think you’ll be bored?”

Sherlock wet his lips and shook his head, “No, John. You’ve never bored me.”

“And I’m not going to start now, am I?”

“No John.”

“No,” I gave him a long kiss, still holding quite tightly onto his hair. “No, I’m not.”

…

“Having fun yet, gorgeous?”  
“Oh have we got to that bit? I hadn’t noticed.”  
“Cheeky. Maybe I won’t tell you, then. I’m already having fun.”  
“Criminally wholesome to enjoy fresh air and exercise, John.”  
“Well if it is, it’s a problem that we’ve got in common, love. I was actually enjoying my own criminally unwholesome thoughts, more so than the fresh air and the exercise just at the moment. But as you’re bored and I’ve promised not to bore you, we’ll have a game on our way back, shall we?”  
“I do like our games, John.”  
“I know you do, love. And you’ve been so nice and patient for me, haven’t you?”  
“Yes, John. Are you going to tell me what the game is?”  
“If you’re ready to turn back now love, ask me nicely about your game.”  
“Will you please tell me about the game you’ve invented for me, John?”  
“Very pretty, lovely. Of course I will. We’re going to have a little race back. If you like.”  
“A race?”  
“Yes, only there’s no running allowed. No running and no knocking into people. And no hailing a cab or stealing a motorbike either, Mr Clever. A footrace.”  
“A no running footrace? I suspect I have the advantage on you there, John. My legs are much longer.”  
“We’ll see. Are you ready?”  
“Ready when you are.”  
“All right, then, gorgeous. On your mark. Get set. Go!”


	440. Chapter 440

“Right, okay stop that.”  
“Breathing, John? Firing neurons? Having an erection? I may be able to help you with one of those, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you your pick.”  
“Stop laughing, Mr Clever!”  
“I am absolutely not laughing, John.”  
“You're thinking laughy thoughts; I can see them in your eyes.”  
“How talented you are, John. I’m sure when I’m in your position, I can scarcely keep track of my own thoughts, let alone divine yours. This soothsaying has been duly noted for future pressings, mind.”  
“Right after this, maybe.”  
“If you’re good.”  
“Fine, keep making jokes. You know if you make me laugh, I’ll slip out.”  
“Heaven forfend.”  
“You’re going the right way for finding something better to do with that clever mouth.”  
“Mmmmm, right after this, maybe.”

 

...

 

"John."  
"Mmm."  
"John."  
"Mmm."  
"John!"  
"Yes, go on, then! I'm not stopping you saying whatever you're saying."  
"John, I'm hungry."  
"Still? Didn't you get enough to eat?"  
"Good lord, John. That joke was revolting."  
"Thank you."  
"Didn't dampen my appetite, though."  
"Bad luck."  
"John, I'm hungry!"  
"That's my gilt invitation to do something about it, I suppose."  
"Gilt invitations are gauche, John."  
"Well there you are."  
"Are you making me cook?"  
"Actually you're trying to make me cook."  
"Remember the souffle?"  
"Maybe don't do a souffle."  
"Oh I like this. First you march me about all over creation, then you have your way with me, and now you're refusing to feed me. Very nice treatment. Husbandly."  
"Ha, nice try."  
"Hmph."  
"Compromise, love. I'll go into the kitchen with you and watch you cook."  
"Well why didn't you say so before?"

...

Despite his obstructionist grousing, John precedes me out of bed. He wraps himself in my second best (blue striped) dressing gown (to please me)(my lovely John)(it will smell of him when next I put it on) and pushes his socked feet (staunchly refused to remove them before the antecedent activities) into his slippers.

When he's properly accoutered, John turns to beckon to me, "Come on then, slug-a-bed. This is your expedition, isn't it?"

"It is proper that you go ahead of me, John. You're my guide."

“Your guide to the kitchen, eh? Come on, up you get. You’re not tricking me into fetching you something while you loll here.” John takes his dressing gown out of the wardrobe and tosses it to me. Lovely.

Put on John’s dressing gown, get out of bed and follow John out into the kitchen. He goes straight through to the sitting room and brings back my slippers, then tosses them on the floor in front of me.

“Ah, thank you John,” I step into them and turn to open the fridge.

John gives me a kiss on the back of my neck, “You’re welcome, lovely.” The fridge is a malodorous disappointment, populated primarily by elderly takeaway and too many bottles of congealing condiments. No specimens at the moment, I’m nearly completely sure. John peers over my shoulder into the fridge, “Suppose we ought to do the shopping. Hmm.” He leans past me to tug out the egg box, “Three left.” John sets the box on the worktop. “Soldiers?”

“You said you weren’t going to cook.”

“I’ll show you how, then. What do you think of that?”

“I know it in theory, John. Only I can’t soft boil an egg.”

“Well you’re not going to let eggs go unconquered, are you lovely?” John grins and bounces his eyebrows.

Of course I’ll see anything he shows me, “Are you going to help me conquer the eggs, John?” I get the butter from the fridge and take a couple of slices of bread out of the bread bin.

John kisses my cheek, “That’s what I’m for, lovely.”

“Thank you, John. Yes, please. Show me.”


	441. Chapter 441

Bent over my microscope in the kitchen, wondering if I'd better put away my experiment and prepare to welcome John (nasty day out, windy and drizzly) when the door bangs downstairs, putting an end to my tardy ponderings. Whisk off my lab apron and begin to tidy away my equipment, but pause. Can hear John on the phone in the passage as he mounts the stairs, his voice modulated into a harsh stage whisper. His trying not to make a scene voice. He pauses, (halfway up?) blusters wordlessly for a moment, then he must disconnect because he continues with quick, angry tread the rest of the way up the stairs.

John bangs open the door to the flat as I'm putting the kettle on and enters the kitchen with his coat still on (pink cheeks and damp patches on his coat from the rain)(smells of ozone and damp wool)(mmmm). John's scowl smooths a bit when he sets eyes on me, and he pauses to kiss me, but he rummages in the cabinet above the sink and pours himself a largish whiskey without speaking a word of greeting or explanation.

Watch him take a sip, "Something is troubling you?"

The lines in his forehead deepen, and he sips again, "Harry."

“I see.”

“Right. I have to admit I tuned out a bit because she was going on about how she wanted to book a mini break at the end of March, but she wouldn’t if I were doing anything for my birthday, because then she’d never hear the end of it. Which is such-” John cuts himself off with a sip of his drink, then grimaces and hands it to me. I set it behind me on the worktop and nod for him to continue. “Anyway, I wasn’t really minding how the conversation got to this point, but she said something about there being two gay siblings in the same family. And,” he pauses and looks round as if for his drink, then meets my eye earnestly, “I swear I didn’t say it angrily; I just said it.”

“What did you say?” Though I suspect I know.

“I said I’m not actually gay.”

“No.”

“Right!” John looks round for his drink again. “It doesn’t offend you when I say that, does it?”

“Harry took offense?”

He nods, his mouth souring, “She told me not to break my neck denying it. And that a bloke who likes blokes and married a bloke is gay.”

Raise my eyebrows, “Good lord.”

“Yeah,” John reaches past me for the drink on the worktop and pulls on it. He wipes his mouth and sets the glass down again, “She told me that I don’t need to be embarrassed of my nature.”

“That is astonishingly wrong-headed, even by Harry’s standards.”

“She pretends she thinks she’s helping me. Actually she’s just making this about her, because obviously if I won’t let her tell me I’m gay, it’s because I’ve got a problem with-” John huffs and grits his teeth, his jaw working.

Edge nearer and stroke his arm, “No one wants to be slotted into the wrong box. She ought to understand that.”

John nods, catches my hand, “It took a lot of. Considering. To land on bisexual. I hate it when people try and pull it out from under me.” John lifts the glass again, then frowns and tips the rest of the whiskey down the sink. Draw him nearer by the hand he’s holding and wrap the other arm round his waist. Kiss him (smells distracting). He hasn’t ever said that word to me. Bisexual. Not that hearing it surprises me. Kiss him again, and when we draw apart, he rests his chin on my shoulder with a little sigh. Stroke his back. "She didn't give a toss about this stuff, when I was working it out. But now I've sorted it and I actually know who I am and like myself for it, she's got something ever so pressing to say. About how I'm wrong. Of course." John draws back to look anxiously into my face, "Do you think she really believes I'm embarrassed? Is that what you thought? When we met? Do you think people think that?"

“Anyone who would presume to explain your feelings and motivations to you over your protests is likely attempting to manipulate you and is not to be trusted.”

John nods, “Right, I know that. But. Did you? Did you think it? That I was embarrassed?”

Breathe the smell of John’s scalp (buttery) while I choose my words, “I have always thought that you are disinclined to discuss your business with people who have nothing to do with it.” This is hedging. This is not enough. This will not do. “I was ashamed. For a long time.”

John looks into my face again, quite surprised, “You were?”

“I didn’t want to want anybody at all. It seemed. Cumbersome.” Shrug my shoulders, “I thought I could scold myself out of it, though of course I never would have admitted that was what I was doing.” Nose John’s hair. He strokes my back. “I’m glad I was mistaken.”

John half-giggles, “So’m I.”

Kiss him, “If you ever thought that your nature was a fault, I can hardly blame you for it, as I was under the same misapprehension.” I draw a long breath and shut my eyes. John is still stroking my back, and it’s rather making my eyes prick. “I am happy to be the man I am, because it means that John Watson loves me and I have the capacity as well as the good sense and good taste to love him in return.”

John hugs me tightly to him for a long moment before he answers, “Yes, I feel the same.” He kisses my cheek, “I’m so proud of you Sherlock. You do know?”

My eyes are quite spilling over now (too proud and too pleased to mind it much), “Yes, John. Matched set.”

 

…

 

“John?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“I’m gay.”  
“Mmm, I was beginning to suspect you might be.”  
“Laughing? Rude, John. Very rude.”  
“I’m sorry, lovely. That was quite rude, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”  
“I never said it to anyone before.”  
“Really?”  
“Really really. Not anyone.”  
“I feel a complete arse now. I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
“Thank you for telling me, lovely.”  
“Yes, well. I thought perhaps you were beginning to suspect.”


	442. Chapter 442

"How much longer?" Sherlock sounds falsely casual instead of brusque, but I don’t really put together the implications of his tone until after I’ve answered wrongly.

"It'll be another twenty minutes or so with these forms, but I can go right after that."

"No, I meant how much longer will you be incubating?"

Raise my eyebrows, "Gestating."

"Yes, that."

Sherlock's questions are often actually seven or eight questions hidden in one, so I look up from my paperwork at that, but I can't see that he’s getting at anything else in particular, "I'm due on the 24th. Of April. So. Not too long."

Sherlock nods, "Then you'll be a mum."

"Then I'll be a mum. And Greg'll be a dad."

"Strange thought," Sherlock taps his pen on the bench. "You're certain to be excellent, though. Both of you being gold star members of the nursemaiding Sherlock squad."

Snort at that, "We do not nursemaid you."

Sherlock smiles, "Perhaps not anymore, but you must admit you have done your share of it."

"I never really thought of it that way, actually," I nod at him. "We're friends."

"Yes, so we are," Sherlock drums his fingers on the bench. He wants to look at his phone, because of feelings things, but he won't let himself, which is nice. I pat his hand, then bend over my paperwork again so as to give him a reprieve. He does get out his phone, and I fill in more of my form while he fusses with it and collects his thoughts. He still surprises me when he speaks again, "I suppose it's fortunate that it just sort of happens," he mutters after a moment.

Snort again, "Believe me, it does not just happen. I've seen the tapes."

"I mean it isn't the sort of thing one has to decide to do," he says solemnly. "It proceeds as it will, without your permission. Otherwise it seems the sort of thing a person might procrastinate indefinitely."

He thinks I can't tell when he's worried, bless him, "Well lots of things are like that. But I'm not focussed on the bit that's bothering you, I think. I'm only anxious to meet Katie."

“Ah yes, of course. The little stranger. So you would be. I see,” his mouth has gone all quirked up and strange. I can’t put my finger on what he might be thinking of. He likes it that way, I suppose. Sherlock adores being mysterious.

“Is there something bothering you, Sherlock?”

“I am known to be unflappable,” he answers in his usual pompous tone. “I am ready to leave when you are.”

“All right then. We can go now, I suppose.” I may as well finish with my paperwork at home, so I fetch my bag and begin to pack it away. “Are we going to yours or mine? We didn’t say.”

“Up to you.” Sherlock checks his watch, “John’ll be home. And our flat is a bit more convenient to the Yard.”

“Yours then.”

“If you like,” Sherlock pulls on his coat, then takes mine off the peg and holds it out to help me on with it.

“This is terribly polite,” I remark as I pull my plait out of my collar. “Is this a pregnant friend thing?”

“I resent the implication that I am occasionally less than polite,” Sherlock opens the door and holds it for me, “Anyway I wasn’t aware that pregnancy stops you putting on your own coat.”

I grin at him, “So you’ve come over all sweet for other reasons?”

“Ergh!” he huffs. “Always polite, never sweet. It’s shameful the way you taunt me, Molly Hooper.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“No, you didn’t.”

I laugh, “Yeah, you’re nicer than I am. I love to tease you, and you hardly ever tease me. That sounds rather sweet to me, Sherlock. You don’t think that makes you sweet?”  
Sherlock tosses his head, “I’m not dignifying your bullying with a response.”

“Maybe it’s only because I’m better at it than you are.” Sherlock glares and offers me his arm. “Oh thank you.” I take it, “Actually I think you rather enjoy the attention.”

“Honestly, Molly!” Sherlock’s huff at that remark is so huffy that I break out laughing. Katie flutters just a bit in response. She’s got less room than she used to. I wonder if it scares her. Growing out of her universe.

Out in front of Bart’s, Sherlock hails us a cab and continues in his thankless politeness by holding the door for me.

“Out of curiosity Sherlock, when was the last time you got the bus?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I’ve been banned because I once borrowed a bus while it was full of people. MOT’s such a bunch of tiresome pettifoggers.”

“You stole a bus?”

“Borrowed. I put it back where I found it. When I’d finished with it.” I’m fairly sure he means me to laugh at that, though he pretends he doesn’t by rolling his eyes at me when I do. Sherlock doesn’t like people to know his jokes are jokes. He does adore being mysterious. I settle into occasional giggles and Sherlock texts nearly continuously for the few minutes it takes us to arrive at Baker Street.

…

 

“So,” Greg’d had a bit, and it made him rather loud, “You’ve got a few years left to have your own little one so that they’re still the right age to marry Katie.”

“As flattering as your deeply peculiar suggestion is, Greg,” Sherlock’d had a bit as well. His s’s had grown soft. “We’ve no intention of having a little one, and between us we haven’t got the appropriate anatomy to surprise ourselves. I’m afraid Katie will have to look outside of Baker Street for a spouse.” He looked at me and smiled, “Though to be sure, uncommonly good ones can be found here.”

“They don’t like babies, Greg,” Molly said. She’d had nothing at all and been quite quiet all evening, so that remark came as rather a surprise.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “What gave you that idea?”

“You will come and visit me, though?” Molly continued, “Even when I’ve more to do with nappies than interesting corpses. You’ll pop round and see me from time to time?”

“Of course!” I said.

“We might bring you interesting corpses, if you miss them,” Sherlock suggested.

Molly blushed but pressed on firmly, “Are you sure, because you’ve only ever been round to our flat two or three times, and it isn’t that you have to like babies, only. I will miss you. If you don’t come and see me. You’ll see this one on cases and things,” she patted Greg’s elbow heavily, “but you must promise that you won’t completely forget me.”

Greg put his arm round her, his forehead furrowed, “I didn’t know you felt that way sweetheart.”

“Nor did we,” I said. “Of course we’ll come and see you.”

Sherlock rose and left the room, but he returned in a moment with a white box under his arm. He reseated himself at the table and put the box down in front of him. “This is for you. Well. For Katie. I’d have waited until after the birth, but I thought perhaps it would do for. Assurances,” he nudged the box toward Molly, and she lifted off the lid and looked into it. “It’s a mobile,” Sherlock said, “To hang over the cot.”

Molly pulled it out of the box. It was a bright red origami flower encircled by origami bees, “Did you make this?”

Sherlock nodded, “Infants are only able to perceive red, black, and white. Those colours are meant to be stimulating to them. It doesn’t play music, though it does spin, if you hang it.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. It’s lovely.” Molly leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

He beamed, “You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re pleased with it.” He glanced at me. “I do like babies actually, and John is fond of them as well, but,” he glanced at me again.

“Whether we did or not, you are important to us. Both of you.” He looked at Greg and nodded. “Very. And. John and I know well enough to make room for that.”

“Of course,” I said. “You’re part of the family.” Sherlock snorted. “All right, bad example. But we’re sort of remaking our families, aren’t we? All of us. You’ve only grown it a bit more. Good. Ha. That’s the idea.”

Sherlock nodded emphatically, “Indeed. So long as you want us, we’ll be tremendously pleased to serve as very fond uncles.”

“Well,” Greg cleared his throat, half rose, then sat down again. “Seems like the moment for a toast, wouldn’t you think?”

“To Molly,” Sherlock suggested.

“Well I can’t toast myself,” Molly said, her mug of tea already at half mast. “To growing the family?”

“Growing the family,” we chorused, then we clinked and drank.


	443. Chapter 443

“I do actually have to go to work today, lovely.”  
“Mmmno, John.”  
“You have to get up.”  
“No, you have to stay here.”  
“I can’t, lovely.”  
“John, I need you.”  
“You need me, do you?”  
“Mmm, I’ve put my slippers on the wrong feet, and I need your emotional support.”  
“Goodness. You know I will get sacked, if I don’t go to work.”  
“I suppose there’s something to the whole healing people business.”  
“There’s something to it, yeah.”  
“But have you considered that I’ve lost count of your freckles, and I need to lie on top of you, while I count them over again?”  
“Maybe you could do that after I get home tonight.”  
“Maybe I could.”  
“Maybe we could make an evening of it.”  
“There’s an idea, John.”  
“Why don’t you mull it over while I’m away, and I’ll do the same.”  
“If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can assemble an extremely pleasant agenda for our evening, John.”  
“My thoughts exactly, lovely.”

....

 

"Little change in plan vis a vis this evening."  
"I thought the plan was to improvise a plan later."  
"Change in our mutual understanding of the parameters of the plan."  
"Is that so? Well do tell. You sound excited."  
"Mmm, it's the company. Or the promise of it, anyway."  
"Flattering, lovely."  
"The unvarnished truth, my John. Always."  
"Ha, let's have it then. The plan."  
"Extremely promising tip I'd like to investigate, and after this evening, there won't be another chance for a month."  
"Well there's our way forward then, isn't it?"  
"I thought you'd say that."  
"You know me well.”  
“Starts at seven. You don’t mind going straight after work?”  
“Of course not. Text me the address?"  
"I'll do you one better and come and fetch you."  
“Then I’ll see you soon.”  
“Mmmm perhaps even a bit sooner.”

 

…

 

“Hello love. You’re right on dot, aren’t you?”  
“My timing has been called impeccable.”  
“Bring your face where I can kiss it...mmm lovely. And looking so handsome, too. Well. As usual.”  
“Thank you, John. Thought I’d look smart for a date with my husband.”  
“A date?”  
“Mmm.”  
“I thought it was a case.”  
“Right. Our sort of date.”  
“Cases only count as dates, if there’s a footchase.”  
“Mm, I’ll see what I can do.”  
“I would also settle for a turn in the coat cupboard. Or whatever’s at hand; I’m not fussed.”  
“Settle?!”  
“Excuse me, love. Poor choice of words.”  
“Mind it doesn’t happen again.”  
“It won’t.”  
“It’d better not.”  
“Well, tell me about the case.”  
“We are in pursuit of an extremely nasty character, John. Extremely nasty. And we’re going where we are likely to encounter him.”  
“And?”  
“And?”  
“Well what else?”  
“I suppose I may as well show you a photo of him, so that you know who we’re looking for.”  
“Have we got a plan?”  
“I’ve sixteen or seventeen ideas. Depends on how the night plays out.”  
“But you aren’t going to tell me?”  
“Mmm, that’s all you get just at present. I have a reputation as a tease to maintain after all.”  
“I should be annoyed at that, you git.”  
“But you just can’t somehow.”


	444. Chapter 444

"Karaoke night?" I grinned at Sherlock as he towed me toward the bar.

"He never misses it." Sherlock ordered us two pints, tucked mine into my hands and took a quick pull from his own.

"I thought you said he was nasty."

Sherlock laid a light hand on my arm and smiled, "Do you think nasty people can't enjoy singing and attention, John?"

I grinned, "Ha, no. Everybody likes that."

Sherlock tapped my glass with his, "Yes, my thoughts exactly."

I sipped my drink, "So he's here, then?"

"Mmm," Sherlock was already scanning the room, his back against the bar. “Meant to be. According to my sources. Haven’t seen him yet.”

“And what are we doing with him, when we find him?”

Sherlock smirked into his glass and pulled on his pint again, “This is a favour to my brother, so he has provided some people to ensure a nice, neat resolution to this expedition that we need not particularly trouble ourselves with.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Favour to your brother?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock sipped his drink again, then set the empty glass on the bar and leaned into me. “Legwork, you know. Technically, we need not have come tonight. The information probably would have done well enough, in tandem with the photograph. But,” Sherlock shrugged and kissed me on the cheek, “I was rather excited when I got the information this morning, as I’d been working on acquiring it for some time. And I thought you might find it entertaining to be here.”

I smiled at the kiss, “You always entertain me, really.”

“I do what I can,” Sherlock smiled back at me, then looked past me into the room, “I need a better vantage point,” He tapped his empty glass and set it on the bar. “Get me another of these, will you? I’ll just have a quick look around.” He shrugged off his coat and laid it over his stool, then slipped away to have his look around.

After I’d got his drink, I looked about me to see that I’d lost Sherlock in the crowd. I was trying to find him again, when I heard a familiar voice, amplified from the mini-stage at the front of the room. I turned and faced the stage and found Sherlock standing on it, a shy smile on his face, shuffling in place a bit, with both hand clasped round the microphone. It was quite a convincing display of nervous sweetness, but I know him well enough to see when he’s shamming.

“This is for some one who’s come to be very important to me,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, his eyes downcast. “I love you, John.” He looked up at that, his eyes landing right on me, and I could not suppress a laugh when he bounced his eyebrows facetiously and began to sing, “‘When no one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong...’” I whistled and clapped. Sherlock gave me a tiny wink, then began to look around the room, making full use of his superior vantage point.

I made a little cheer when Sherlock finished his song, and he nodded at me, stepped down from the little stage, and came toward me. On his way to me, he jostled someone quite hard and made rather a meal of apologising. He joined me at the bar, smiling like the cat that got the cream, and gave me a smacking kiss.

“Someone’s feeling celebratory? Got your man?” I stroked his shoulder. He smiled and nodded toward the room, where I just spotted a nervous ginger man being escorted away by a nice looking lady with a grey plait. I tugged his shoulder, and Sherlock leaned in for another kiss, “You know lovely, if you wanted to sing to me, you might have just said so.”

Sherlock kissed me again, still smug, “As I said, John, I brought you here because I thought you might find it entertaining. I saw an opportunity to entertain you.”

I laughed and stroked his back, “Shall we get back to the flat for more entertaining kissing? Or will you stay and have one more drink?”

Sherlock nuzzled me, warm and buzzy against my ear,“One more quick one, John? I’m getting rather good at waiting.”

I grinned at that, "Are you indeed?"

"Oh yes."

"Mmm, Sherlock you were unable to produce a footchase. How shall we make it up to ourselves?"

Sherlock nosed my ear again, and his humming answer buzzed right into my brain, "I'm sure we'll magic up something, John."


	445. Chapter 445

"You have a really nice singing voice." Turn to the source of the compliment and find a tall woman with curly, dark hair smiling at me. One of Mycroft's people? Sneering by proxy? No, no. She's at leisure, not at work (posture, attire, expression).

"No, I don't." Reach for my drink and find that it's empty.

She smiles more insistently (ergh) and nods as if we're in agreement, "You really do. Do you like Elvis?"

"A bit." Set my glass down on the bar and start to turn back to John, whom I feel leaning toward me (can sense his interest, rather than see it in his face).

"Shall I get you another?" she leans over the bar as she speaks, trying to catch eyes with the barman.

"No, thank you. I should-"

She turns back to me, bats her eyelashes (people actually do that?) "Oh come on. Your friend can spare you a few minutes for a drink with a pretty girl, can't he?"

Raise an eyebrow and smile sardonically, "He isn't my friend, he-"

"Then he can definitely spare you." She's misinterpreted the smile and she lays a hand on my arm as if it's all settled now.

Withdraw my arm and hold up my hand to show her my ring, "He isn't my friend; he's my husband, and we're on a date. Excuse me."

She looks mortified and turns to scurry away almost at once, "Sorry.”

Turn back to John, and he bounces his eyebrows and grins at me as soon as I meet his eye, “Look at you,” he nudges me. “Picking up admirers wherever you go.”

Nudge back, “Shut up, John.”

“I was just about to step in,” John’s expression is interesting. Mischief. Affection. Something else. Rather makes me shiver. “Mmmm, but I can hardly fault her for trying to chat you up,” John slides one hand under my jacket and rests it on my waist. “You do have a lovely singing voice, and you’re the best-looking person in the place.”

“Flatterer.”

John draws me a bit closer, his thumb stroking my side languidly. I think I may be blushing. “Well that doesn’t sound like me, now does it, gorgeous?” Certainly blushing now (use of that particular pet name is sexually suggestive)(association he’s deliberately encouraged)(when did John get so bloody clever?!)(always has been)(with me). Try and think of something witty to say, but John briefly cups my face in one hand and traces his thumb over my cheekbone. Silent remark on my changing colour. Makes me stupid. I lean into his hand, and he withdraws it after a moment. “Shall we have another drink?” His voice is rough. Lovely (I affect him the way that he affects me)(matched set)(lovely). I must look rather balky at the suggestion of lingering, because John laughs low (mmmm). “Or maybe we’ll go out for some air. Bit close in here, eh?”

Clear my throat, “Yes, so it is. Some air would be marvellous.”

“Off we pop, then,” John helps me on with my coat, and we find our way through to crowd to the door, his warm hand on my back as we go.

 

…

 

John is still in the mood to wait, when we make it out onto the pavement. I step up to the kerb to hail a cab, and he tuts at me, “Is that any way to get air?”

Bounce an eyebrow at him, “Weren’t you speaking euphemistically?”

John offers me his elbow, “Now what could ‘getting some air’ be a euphemism for?”

Take his elbow and let him fold my fingers over the crook of his arm and pat them before I answer, “Oh an entire agenda, to be sure.”

John laughs, “Yes, of course. And what did you imagine the agenda to be, lovely?”

Draw in a deep breath of cool, sweetish air (blossoms, exhaust, salt, piss, damp asphalt, just a hint of John’s sweat)(mmmm)(tug him a little closer), “Oh off the top of my head, snogging in a cab right up to the limits of acceptable comportment, snogging in the foyer beyond the limits of acceptable comportment, enthusiastic frottage on the sofa until interrupted by a cat or cats, removal to the bedroom, more enthusiastic frottage on the bed, possibly capped with some oral sex for good measure, mutual orgasms, lazy attempt at a wash, and then some snoring from you, because you fall asleep on your back when you go to bed drunk.”

John giggles through this recitation, looking up at me with denuding affection for several moments after I’ve finished, “You’ve got a gift for soothsaying, my lovely.” There’s an interesting mingle of satisfaction and anticipation on his sweet face, and I’ve this vague notion that if I taste him at once, I’ll catch the flavour of the cocktail. Kiss him, and he makes a little sigh of surprise and strokes my arm. He only tastes of beer (decent enough approximation?)(in context) but his mouth is so warm and responsive that it raises shivers of anticipation over me. Clear my throat, “John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” His fingers tighten on my arm, and he strokes me with his thumb.

“I’m tired of waiting now.”

“Good.” John grins, kisses me again, “So’m I.”


	446. Chapter 446

"Ah, John. How nice to hear from you."  
"Good morning, Mycroft. I hope I haven't called too early."  
"Not at all."  
"I only wanted to-"  
"Discuss the gift out of Sherlock's hearing."  
"Well yes. Sort of. I wanted to thank you, anyway."  
"Have you had a chance to watch it already?"  
"No, not yet, but I'm really looking forward to it."  
"Then you have deduced what it is."  
"Either it's a home movie of Sherlock from when you were kids, or it's the video of Sherlock singing karaoke from the other night."  
"The latter."  
"Thanks very much, Mycroft. I'm really really going to enjoy this."  
"My pleasure. It was easy enough to obtain, and whatever he may pretend to the contrary, Sherlock will be pleased to have his homage immortalised. Many happy returns."  
"Ha, true enough. Thanks. Oh er. When's your birthday?"  
"Would you believe I don't have one?"  
"Not any more than I believe it when Sherlock says it. What's a Holmes birthday like, anyway?"  
"Not a story worth hearing, I assure you."  
"Oh. Okay. Excuse me."  
"It's the second of October."  
"Right, I'll remember that."  
"No need."  
"Okay, I'll remember to forget, then."  
"Happy birthday, John."  
"Thanks Mycroft."

...

 

"This is stupid!"  
"You're stupid."  
"Oh nice comeback, John."  
"It got what it deserved. Anyway, don't call my birthday party stupid."  
"It isn't a party!"  
"Because of the abbreviated guest list? Shall I ring up Greg and Molly and Mike and Bill and Portia and Jane and Mrs Hudson and Harry and probably Mycroft-"  
"Mycroft?!"  
"Yeah, he sent me a present. We're making friends. Anyway, I could invite all of them, but I'm not sure they'd fit in our bed, love. And I do insist on the bed."  
"Present? What present?"  
"Can't you deduce it?"  
"Hmph. What’s he suddenly sending you presents for? It’s crafty; I don’t like it.”  
“It’s not crafty; it’s nice.”  
“You must have really wanted that present.”  
“I’ll tell you all about it later. It’s birthday party time now.”  
“Watching telly in bed isn’t a party.”  
“You’re right; we want silly hats, don’t we?”  
“John!”  
“So you see now I’m being merciful, aren’t I? And correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I’ve spent multiple days in bed at your convenience.”  
“It isn’t the bed I object to.”  
“And we’re not watching telly; we’re watching DVDs.”  
“And we’re watching them on a what?”  
“Different medium.”  
“On a what? I’m sorry?”  
“Films and television are a completely different sort of storytelling!”  
“Ergh. Equally dull.”  
“Well I’ve got a cold, and I feel dreadful, and I know it’s stupid to be upset about having a cold on my birthday, but there you are.”  
“Oh. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s all right, really. I’ve captured you, and you’re going to help me make the best of it, Fortunato. Anyway, you know you’re going to mess about on your phone and entertain yourself with making snide remarks and begging for petting.”  
“Begging?!”  
“You don’t beg?”  
“I choose my moments.”  
“Don’t we all? Pass me the remote.”  
“Ergh.”  
“Now, none of that. Put your head here, and I’ll pet you. No begging required.”  
“All right, then. Have at me, Montresor.”

 

…

 

John,

Today is the anniversary of your birth, and as high priest of your cult, it falls to me to burn the incense and prepare the feast. Birthday celebrations as a convention are not exactly my area, but I hope I never shy away from the opportunity to make much of you. Another year gone and I am more firmly persuaded that you will never grow out of astonishing me.

I know you to be the best man in the world. I know that you are brilliant and strong and brave and beautiful and hysterically funny. I know that you are a hundred thousand times more than exactly what I need, but you manage to surprise me. Not occasionally, but always! I know to expect to marvel over your goodness, your cleverness, your gentleness, your resilience. Still you pry me apart at my seams; you insinuate yourself into my nooks and startle me with your excellence. You always have. You always will. You grow and shift and are ever more kaleidoscopic in your in your superbness. Yet you remain my fixed point!

I know that I shall never puzzle out all your whences and wherefores, but it will be my dearest delight to ponder them for the rest of our days.  
S


	447. Chapter 447

Are you inside of your flat?  
-SH

 

Yeah, why? Are you going to scold me for not being at the lab?  
~Molly~

 

No, I am outside of your flat.  
-SH

 

John and I are, I should say. We've come for a visit.  
-SH

 

Well come in, you silly.  
~Molly~

 

Open the door.  
-SH

 

Don't fancy housebreaking?  
~Molly~

 

Be careful what you wish for.  
-SH

 

Oh, god. I take it back forever. No housebreaking!  
~Molly~

 

Well, come and let us in, and we won’t need to consider it.  
-SH

 

…

 

I send Greg to let the boys in, and he brings them back to the sitting room, grinning, “They’ve brought treats,” he points a thumb at Sherlock who’s holding an ice cream cone and licking melted ice cream off his wrist.

“John had a craving,” he announces. “Or so he says. Honestly I just don’t think he’s got the constitution to stay in bed all day. He gave up after only three films.”

John must be the holder of the treats. He’s got a plastic carrier bag slung over one wrist as well as the sticky remains of a cone in his hand. He rolls his eyes as he crunches down the very last bit of his cone, “It was the films that started the craving! I’m just as constitutional as you are.”

Sherlock raises his voice a little, “That doesn’t make any sense, John.”

“Well it would if you’d been paying attention.”

“We agreed that I wouldn’t pay any attention at the outset.” Sherlock ambles over to the sofa as he speaks and leans down to give me a slightly sticky kiss on the cheek, “Hello Hoopers.”

I smile, “Hello Watsons. Greg said something about treats?”

John holds up the carrier bag, “Yeah, we’ve got Cornettos. You want strawberry or mint?”

"I'll have the mint, as the missus will want the strawberry," says Greg at the same time that I reach for the strawberry. John hands round our Cornetto, grinning back and forth between the two of us.

"If I'm the missus, are you the mister?"

I tuck into my Cornetto at once, but Greg tears off the paper thing and sniffs the whorl of his treat, as if he isn't sure it is what it purports to be, "I'm the inspector." Seems to have checked out okay because he takes a big bite.

"Then I ought to be the doctor."

"Well there are a lot of doctors," Greg jerks his head at John. "Only one missus, though."

I sort of giggle, and it sounds silly, but I don't care, "Even more reason to be the mister."

"All right, then I'll be the mister. Since you ask, sweetheart."

"Oh good lord," Sherlock mutters.

"None of that," Greg and I say in unison, then break out laughing.

"You might let us be the cutest couple in our own flat, Sherlock," I prod his wrist with the tip of my ice cream, and he startles back with glare like I've just splashed a corrosive over him.

"Sherlock only gets a bit cross when he goes ten minutes without some one flirting with him," Greg grins at me as he walks through to the kitchen.

"He's all taken care of for a bit then, eh gorgeous?" John licks his lips and strokes Sherlock's elbow.

Sherlock actually colours at that. "Stop it," he murmurs, dropping his eyes.

John grins and shakes his head once, "Never."

"Now what did we just say?" Greg enters the room with a kitchen roll and tears off a sheet to hand to each of us, "You're making me look bad."

"No, he isn't," I say firmly. "But anyway, are you having a nice birthday, John? Any nice pressies?"

John wipes his fingers, still grinning at Sherlock like he's thinking things not fit to be shared, "Oh yeah. Very nice."

“Right, no innuendo in the sitting room!” I hold up a hand, “Hooper house rule.”

“That’s a new one,” Greg takes another big bite of his Cornetto.

“And it wasn’t innuendo, actually,” John looks too smug for that to be true. Though John’s just smug sometimes. “I did get a really nice present, and it wasn’t even from Sherlock.” He sits down on the love seat, which somehow makes him look smugger.

Sherlock scowls his most affronted scowl, then sits down next to John on the love seat and prods his arm, “I can’t believe you would say that about something that came from Mycroft.”

“Here now, you don’t even know what it is. You might agree with me. And you’ve got chocolate on your sleeve. Did you know?”

Sherlock shoves his ice cream at John and swabs at the stain on his sleeve, “Do stop being coy, John.”

“Coy? Me?” John bats his eyelashes and begins to polish off Sherlock’s ice cream. Greg perches on the arm of the sofa nearest me and nudges me with his elbow, as if there’s an interesting development unfolding in our favourite television programme.

Sherlock heaves a massive sigh and turns to Greg, “Will you do something about him, please?”

“Not about this one?” Greg nods at John.

“Clearly not! If anything is ever going to be done about John, obviously I’m going to be the one to do it! About my dreadful brother. You seem to have a. Rapport.”

Greg laughs, “Friendship, I think is the word you’re looking for. And you know you sound most like him when you’re annoyed with him. It’s uncanny.”

Sherlock swells with indignation, then tosses his head and composes his features, “I am not going to respond to that; you’re only trying to wind me up.” He glares round the room, stopping on John, “Can’t think why any of you would orchestrate annoyances, when all of you are quite annoying enough incidentally.”

“Incorrigible flirt,” John leans over and pecks Sherlock on the cheek. Sherlock tries not to look pleased. “You don’t want to hear about my present, then?”

“I’m sure it isn’t worth the energy to attempt to stop you doing anything you’ve set your mind to.”

“Plus it’s my birthday, and that gives me a little leeway, doesn’t it, love?”

“No, it doesn't! A birthday isn't an accomplishment to be rewarded, John.”

"Well, it is a bit. In our line of work, it is a bit." John's tone is light and playful, but we all go silent for a moment, and Sherlock gets quite frowny.

Greg clears his throat, "We've actually got you a present, John. Molly was really pleased about it, and I think she only hasn't offered it to you yet because we haven't wrapped it yet."

"That's all right," I say, "We'll be slapdash and throw it in a bag," I push myself up, and wave Greg away when he offers to go and get it for me. I pop, well waddle really, into the bedroom and bring back John's present in its slapdash bag. "There you are," I tell him. "Greatest gift of all. Even better than Mycroft's jiggery pokery."

John peers into the bag, eyebrows raised and bursts out laughing when he sees what we've got him, "Great indeed. Too right. The gift of winding up Sherlock!" He lifts his Cluedo game out of the bag.

"Rematch!" Sherlock says at once. "I demand a rematch. We're inside the statute of limitations."

John laughs even harder, then looks to Greg and me, "Well Hoopers? What do we reckon? Shall we ruin this friendship?"


	448. Chapter 448

"How did this happen to me, John? I do a generous thing for the good of humanity, and this is my reward?" Sherlock scowled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and did up one of his shirt buttons so that only the top one was undone. He cocked his head, ruffled his hair, then undid the button he'd just done up.

"Buttoned," I said.

"Can't they just pop their gratitude tokens in the post? Then I won't have to embarrass us all by attempting to feign interest in their fawning," he ruffled again and re-buttoned.

"To be honest, I'd have the eighty quid over the engraved thingy, whatever it is this time. But you know. With great everything comes responsibility or something." I shrugged, "And anyway, people like to show they're grateful."

Sherlock scoffed, "Grateful? It's a photo op, John. It goes no deeper than that."

I stroked Sherlock's elbow while I thought how to answer him, and he tilted his head toward me and looked at me in the mirror, "I know it seems like a little thing. Like a little token. Which it is. But it's got to be, hasn't it? I mean. What would fit? What's big enough? What is there to be said?"

Sherlock half smiled and lowered his head slightly, though he kept his eyes on mine, "Excuse me for suggesting you may be projecting your outsized gratitude onto the world at large, John."

"Sherlock," I shook him gently by the shoulder, "It’s not a bit outsized. See, this is what I mean. I can tell you that you’ve changed my life and saved it so many times, in so many ways. I can tell you that,” I cleared my throat and looked down at my hands for a moment, then pulled on his arm and turned him to face me. He was going a bit pink, but I pressed on, looking up into his face, “I can remind you that you saved my life by winking at me that first time you set eyes on me, and I know it seems a bit cheap and feeble to just say, cheers for that, here’s a tie pin, but,” I shrugged. “Erm. Cheap and feeble is all we’ve got, we mortals. There isn’t much way to thank you for spreading your genius around instead of hoarding it up. Not so that you really understand what you’ve done, but. We can’t not try, even if it comes out sort of rubbish.”

Sherlock was quite pink when I finished, his eyes downcast so that they looked shut. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head and kissed me instead. “You are still projecting.”

I pulled him a bit closer and kissed him again, “Yeah, I suppose. I ha. I got a bit off track. Anyway, what I was getting at is that erm. People can’t ignore what you’ve done for them. And they shouldn’t. And accepting other people’s gratitude is good for you, so. Do it. Ha.”

Sherlock hugged me and sighed against my hair, “Mmnf. Can’t I keep the gratitude and leave the tat and the photo op?”

I patted his back, “This is how Mycroft’s lot does gratitude, love.”

“It isn’t even Mycroft’s lot. It was a favour by proxy. And I hate being photographed; I always look like an ill-tempered stick insect.”

“Now you know I disagree with that, gorgeous,” I kissed him again and stroked his side. “They’ll make a boring speech about you, while you stand in the background looking solemn and heroic. You’re quite good at that; believe me. Then it’ll be here you are, Mister Holmes, your titanium tie pin of gratitude. Shake hands with the presenter bloke and look at the camera for a photo and done. Your bit’ll be quick. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“Rhyming at me doesn’t help, John.”

I laughed, “Mmm, Sherlock.” I kissed him, “If think you might look a bit cross up there, you can always think back to the last time I helped you smile for the camera, mmm?” I stroked down Sherlock’s back and rubbed his hip.

Sherlock laughed one of his wicked little laughs, “Oh indeed? Are you going to climb under the podium and suck me off during Mycroft’s press conference to make me cheery for the cameras?”

I gave him a little pinch on his backside, and he jumped, “No, cleverboots. I don’t think even I could quite manage that, could I? But maybe we’ll have a little think about what I could manage and come up with something we like almost as much.”

“I have every confidence that if we put our heads together, we can invent an extremely serviceable substitute, John.”

“Yeah, love. We’re clever that way.”

…

“I’m grateful to you as well, John. I should have said before, when you were sorting me out. I’m grateful to you. Thank you.”  
“It’s what I’m for, lovely.”  
“I don’t just mean-”  
“I know. It’s what I’m for.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“You’re welcome, love. Anything. Anytime. Always.”


	449. Chapter 449

John hoists me up against him and kisses the crease of my knee. His stubble pricks against my skin, warm anticipation blossoming where he touches me. His teeth are heralded by his hot breath, and I start when he bites me (mmm wound up already).

John laughs, “Yeah?”

“Get on with it, John.” He likes me insolent.

John’s lazy smirk broadens and he gives my inner thigh a little slap (not too little)(stings)(mmmm)(shiver), “Bossy bossy. Are we comfortable? Need another pillow?”

“Superlatively positioned, John, now touch me, please!” John laughs a very particular sort of laugh, and I shiver at the sound. Shut my eyes and cling tighter to the headboard (strict orders to keep my hands on the headboard unless invited to do otherwise)(mmm).

John strokes along my thigh and gives me another little slap, “Well, well, we are very keen indeed, aren’t we?” He nuzzles the spot he’d bitten, then kisses it, nipping and sucking at my skin and stroking my hip with his free hand. All I can do under this attention is shudder and twitch (and whimper)(he likes that). “Mmmm,” I open my eyes at the sound of John’s warm, rough voice. He’s smiling at me (a smile I wish I could taste)(I could, if he would bring it to me!). He cups my cheek, and I lean into his hand. John makes a little sigh, “So beautiful, Sherlock. Do you know that, lovely?”

“Kiss me?” comes out smaller than I expected, and John sighs again sweetly and shifts my leg off his shoulder to lean forward and kiss me, warm and soft as melting. Lovely. As he kisses me, John lowers himself to lie flush against me, bumping his erect cock against my hip and raises a hand to toy gently with my hair. Lovely (I want him to pull it)(he won’t)(yet).

“So beautiful,” John murmurs again as he draws back. “Do you know how gorgeous you are, lovely? I want to show you to yourself,” he strokes my cheek as he speaks, and his expression is dazzlingly naked. Shut my eyes again, then open them. I am ravenous for John’s tenderness, flaying as it may be. John pushes himself up to resume his kneeling position between my legs. Under John’s encouragement, I put my left foot flat on his thigh and my right on his chest. John smiles down at me for a moment, rests one hand on my belly (shiver), “You’ve been very patient, haven’t you?”

Swallow, nod, “Yes, John.”

“Gorgeous,” John kisses my ankle, then feels about him in the disarrayed sheets to find a bottle of lubricant. He snaps the cap open one-handed with a sharp sucking sound and squeezes a plump dollop onto his index finger. Spreads it over his fingers with his thumb (his expression is an interesting mix of hungry and deliberate). John presses two cool, slippery fingers to me, just below my scrotum and glides them quickly up and down my perineum. Jolt at that and make a sharp little moan. John looks up into my face, grinning and drops his free hand down to his cock to give it a quick squeeze (makes my mouth water), “Good?”

Nod and drum my fingers on the headboard, “Yes, please, more!”

John rubs me slower but firmly, “Do you want me to touch your cock, lovely?”

“Yes, John! Please!”

“Such pretty manners, Sherlock. Mmm,” John squeezes my cock, and I jump and shudder (closer than I thought)(he makes it sneak up on me)(talented, John, so talented). John strokes me. His hand on me is unhurried, but I can see that quick quick pulse at his throat and the hungry look in his eyes is flaring like a stoked fire. John applies a bit more lube, then presses his fingers inside of me, and there are quavering little cries leaking from my mouth just as there is pre-come leaking from my cock. John sighs deeply, “Ohhh Sherlock, look at you. So fucking beautiful. Are you ready, gorgeous? Shall I make you come now?” Can’t answer. Nod and moan, and John hums a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.  
John’s fingers inside me turn and press and beckon, and he rubs against them through my perineum with his thumb. He quickens the pace of his hand on my cock, twisting a bit on the upstroke and rolling his thumb roughly over the head of my cock, and I’m close close, so close, rocking my hips up to meet his hands. “Come on, gorgeous,” John turns his head and kisses my ankle, nuzzles his rough chin against it (mmm). I shiver. “Come on, Sherlock. Come on, lovely. For me, please. You’re almost there, aren’t you?” He hitches me a bit closer, pressing his fingers deeper inside me and gives my calf a sharp nip.

“John!” I gasp at the sudden sting of John’s teeth, jolt, and thump my head back hard against the headboard, rocking up against John as I come.

“Mmmm,” John kisses the bite mark. “Gorgeous,” he breathes. “Oh Sherlock, so beautiful.”


	450. Chapter 450

It was a bit warm for it, but regardless Sherlock was curled up tight to me, with his head tucked under my chin. I'd spat out all the wisps of his hair that had migrated into my mouth, and the madman himself was very nearly asleep. His thumb was lazily twitching on my rib cage, and his breathing came in slow, deep gusts of hot moisture on my collarbone. All extremely comfortable and cosy. So it was quite a surprise when Sherlock's mobile buzzed on his night table, and his arm shot out with all speed and ferocity and smacked it onto the floor, where it skidded under the bed.

"Get that, John," Sherlock nudged me with his chin.

"Me? You're the one who knocked it down, Montresor."

"Mmm. My fine motor skills have been affected by your," Sherlock waved vaguely, "Earlier assiduousness. Your responsibility to make amendments"

I laughed, "Flattering. Still, I'll get it later."

"You'll forget."

"So remind me. If I get up now, we'll have to untangle."

"I can untangle and retangle quick as you like, John."

"Maybe you've been just as assiduous as I have, and my fine motor skills have been affected, too."

Sherlock made a sweet, throaty, pleading sound like a hungry puppy, "Please, John?"

I laughed, "All right, but I'm going to be sure and make you beg again in the near future, since you do it so prettily." Sherlock made a face like a man swallowing a really remarkably large huff. I laughed again, "Yeah, keep on like that; that's just what I mean." Sherlock's only answer was to untangle himself from me rather roughly, flop over to the far side, and nudge me toward the edge of the bed. I thought Sherlock would enjoy a reminder of the potency of his little assistances, so I tumbled out of bed onto the floor. It hurt rather more than expected, "Ow." I rubbed my elbow and my backside in turn.

"Goodness!" Sherlock popped up on his elbow and looked over the edge at me, "I have been assiduous, haven't I?"

"Ha mm yeah, a bit. Though you're always assiduous, aren't you, lovely?"

Sherlock smiled and crooked an eyebrow, "For you, John."

I laughed and crawled halfway under the bed. Skip was underneath, looking as put out as Sherlock had a moment ago. I stroked her chin, "Have you seen Daddy's phone, darling?" Skip seemed unsure about the phone, but she rubbed her cheek against my fingers and purred to make it up to me.

"John! We agreed that we would not refer to ourselves as the parents of any animals!" Sherlock bounced on the bed to drive home his point.

"We've agreed nothing. Only you bellow at me, every time I do it. Anyway how d'yknow I'm talking to an animal? Have you forgotten our dozen charming farmer children?"

Sherlock bounced again, "There isn't anything about this conversational bent that I don't hate, John! And anyway, I know purring when I hear it. Have you got it, yet? Come out of there. The dust is going to your unfortunate head."

"It's less dusty than I'd have thought, actually. Can't remember when I last hoovered in here, and Mrs Hudson would rather eat our bed than go into our bedroom, I think. Sound thinking on her part, if you ask me," I spotted Sherlock's phone and grabbed for it, barking my knuckles on something metallic when I did.

"I was trying to be charitable. It was the only polite reason I could imagine for why it might take a professional detective such a dreadfully long time to find a mobile phone under the bed."

"Looking takes ages," I reminded him. "Ooh hullo! It's the biscuit tin! I was wondering where that'd got to."

"Well hurry and haul it up," Sherlock bounced. "You'd think you were bringing up sunken treasure."

I popped out from under the bed, and nearly clunked heads with Sherlock, because he was leaning over the edge. "Shall we have a little look in the tin to sweeten our tempers, lovely?" I shook the tin at him and set his mobile on the night table.

"Oh, don't patronise, John. Come back up here and let me tangle with you."

I climbed back into bed with the biscuit tin tucked under one arm and patted my chest when I got myself settled, "You hide your affection so cunningly, lovely. Anyone would suppose you were a bit cross with me."

Sherlock looked a little sheepish as he tangled up with me again and laid his head on the designated spot, "You know where to find it when you look for it, Fortunato." He kissed my chest, "Though looking does take ages."

"Oh I like the hunt. Thrill of the chase, you know," I stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head, "My cunning grump."

"You just like me making you look like the sweet-tempered one." Sherlock hummed and kissed me again, "Let's do the tin, John. Pass it to me, I'll read for you." I handed over the biscuit tin, and Sherlock popped off the lid and stirred the notes with his index finger.

He pulled out a likely-looking one and giggled when he’d got it unfolded, “I remember writing this one; You’ll like it.”

I grinned, “Get on, then.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and read aloud, “‘John, you’ve got the most perfect cock. Did you know? S.’”

“Perfect, eh?”

“Entirely.”

“I suppose you would say that,” I gave his hair a tug. “Never bite the hand that feeds you.”

Sherlock laughed one of his wicked little laughs, “The hand that feeds me indeed.”

“It sort of curves, you know.”

Sherlock kissed my hand, “Obviously I know, John. I could graph the curve, if you asked me to.”

I laughed, “Of course you could.”

“Mmm, perfect colour, too. It ought to be in the encyclopaedia as a model of perfection.”

“Does the encyclopaedia have articles on er. Cock rubrics?”

Sherlock cleared his throat to swallow his laughter, “I shall write to them and send them my illustrations.”

“Yeah, copy me on that; I must have a look at those.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock lifted the bedding and peeped under it, “John, do you suppose-”

“Sorry, love. Not a chance,” I kissed his hair and stretched. “You were too assiduous.”

“Ah well,” Sherlock raised his head and waited for me to kiss him before he replied, “I suspected I might have been.”


	451. Chapter 451

John,  
I wonder how many eyelashes you’ve got on each eyelid. Over two hundred? I wonder how I might find out.  
S 

 

John,  
I do not recall seeing you wearing those rugby socks before. Horizontal stripes become your calves.  
S

 

Hullo love,  
I had a dream about you singing to me last night. Remind me to tell it to you some time. I’ve been quite preoccupied with the idea.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
Leg’s fucking ached all day. I’m taking you into a hot bath in a minute. Then I’m going to spoon you until I fall asleep. You always put me right. Magic, I suppose. I’ll see to your pressing later.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
I can see you’ve been pinching my jumpers again. This one smells of you. Will you wear all my clothes for me before I put them on? I quite like going round smelling of my husband.  
Yours,  
John

 

Hullo love,  
You're playing our piece, 'Nothing to Worry About.' I say our piece, though all I've done is goggle at you while you try and compose. I wish I could say I had a bit more to do with it. It's beautiful. You are as well when you play. You are always, of course. But there is something about you when you're at one of your own compositions. I need my thesaurus because my old standbys are sounding a bit stale. It's tricky in general to put you into words. If I tell you that you're amazing, I'm forced to remember that yesterday, I called a mushroom tart amazing. If I say that you're fantastic, I've grouped you with those brogues I bought last week.  
Now here, I've got my thesaurus, and I've found some very good words for you. You are arresting; you are sensational; you are glorious. I cherish, treasure, prize you (that's what it gave me for adore). And I'm coming to the end of my abilities again. Lucky me you never seem to mind me trying again and again.  
Yours,  
John

...

 

"Molly Hooper, are you aware that they are now giving ASBOs for returning text messages with phone calls?"  
"Actually you returned a phone call with a text message; I called you first."  
"Mm. I was occupied. Couldn't tear myself away."  
"That's enough, thanks."  
"You and your imagination. Anyway. Did you only mean to treat me to the sound of your voice?"  
"No, actually. Is John around?"  
"No, he's having a shower."  
"Right. Well, when he comes out, you might tell him I gave birth this morning...Sherlock?"  
"This morning?"  
"Yeah, about half three this morning."  
"I- Goodness! Congratulations, Molly."  
"Thank you! I'm insufferable about it; ask Greg."  
"I-hem-I believe there is a customary recitation of certain statistics on these occasions."  
"Katherine Ivy Hooper-Lestrade, born to Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade at three-thirty four AM. Eight pounds on the nose. Fifty-two centimeters. Don't worry; I won't tell the others you cried."  
"I am not!"  
"It's all right. Good practise for being a fond uncle. You're coming to see us tomorrow, yes?"  
"Yes, of course, if you want us."  
"Of course I want you! Fond uncles bring presents. Anyway, must dash."  
"We'll see you tomorrow. Our love to Greg and Katie."  
"I'm setting that as my text alert."  
"You're awful."  
"Ha, we love you, too."  
"Even Katie?"  
"Definitely! See you tomorrow!"


	452. Chapter 452

The boys turn up at the crack of visiting hours, Sherlock cradling a massive bunch of daffodils and John bearing two small bags, a white paper one and a shiny one of the same colour as the daffodils.

"Good morning!" John chirps in an oddly bright voice as they walk in, "How are we all doing today?"

I laugh and push myself up to sit more upright, "Oooh, is that your Doctor Watson voice?"

John grins, "Hospital room. Force of habit," He sidles toward Greg and claps him on the back. Greg grins back at him, looking a little dazed.

Sherlock edges in behind John with a sidelong glance toward Katie's cot next to my bed, "These are for you," he pushes the daffodils at me. "We've also got things for Greg and Katie. Fond uncles, you know."

I bring the flowers up to my face to smell them, "Thank you; they're lovely."

Sherlock smiles and turns to John to take the bags out of his hands. He hands the white bag to Greg, "As I understand these things, your role in the enterprise to date has been largely nominal, so this is something of a token."

Greg snorts, but his expression brightens when he looks in the bag, "Jam doughnut. Thanks!" he pulls it out of the bag and bites in at once. Greg bounces his eyebrows and smiles round his mouthful. There's already a little smear of jam on the corner of his lip, and it makes my eyes sort of tingle like I may cry. I've been doing that lots lately.

Sherlock turns back to me and holds out the little yellow bag, "This is for Katie, obviously." Greg sets down his doughnut and takes the flowers from me. He puts them next to the ones from Mycroft, which Sherlock has either not noticed or is pointedly ignoring. Either option seems likely. I open the little yellow bag and pull out the gift. Sherlock is fidgeting as he watches, "It seemed like your sort of nonsense." He makes a little cough and pats his pockets, the way he does when he is determined not to fiddle with his phone.

It's a tiny little hat, yellow and white striped with teeny cat ears on. That tingling in my eyes is back, and I actually may cry, though I'm no closer to knowing exactly why than I was before, "It's lovely." Greg rubs my back and a little tear spills out. I sniffle, "Thanks."

“Shall we try it on her, sweetheart?” Greg pats me, and I nod, because I know my voice has gone all funny.

“That’s her there, yes?” Sherlock looks directly at the cot next to my bed for the first time since they walked in.

I clear my throat, “Actually this is a practise one in case we drop her or something. Our real one is much cuter, but we don’t check her out until we leave.” Greg chuckles as he goes round the end of the bed to lift Katie out of her cot. John and Sherlock just look a little awkward, “That was a joke,” I say. “You were meant to laugh.”

Sherlock still looks almost stony, but John obliges nervously and pats Sherlock’s elbow, “I was going to say, she looks plenty cute to me!”

“Right, well. Obviously, I’ve given birth to the world’s first perfect child.”

“Obviously,” Greg says, kissing Kate on the forehead and lowering her into my arms. Katie stirs, and we all hold our breath, but she sleeps on. I bend and kiss her little face, because I honestly can’t help myself. She really is the world’s first perfect child. I lose myself for a moment, stroking her teeny knuckles, her chin, the tip of her nose.

John breaks the silence, “She’s ginger.”

“Yeah,” I whisper and stroke the bright red hair back from her forehead, “My mum says it’ll probably go blonde before she’s too much older, though. I’m hoping it won’t.”

“I used to be ginger,” Sherlock says. “Though now I am. Not.”

“Until he was four,” John agrees and pats Sherlock again.

“Did you know each other back then?” Greg eases the hat on Katie’s head, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Not that lucky I’m afraid,” John squeezes Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock actually breaks away to come and stand nearer to the bed and loom over us, peering down at Katie.

“She looks like you,” Sherlock says, looking from Katie to Greg and me in turn. “Both of you. Greg, she’s got your exact chin. And Molly’s nose. I always thought people were just being polite when they say that to new parents.”

I look up from Katie’s perfect face, grinning like a fool, “Yeah, she does, doesn’t she? Do you want to hold her?”

Sherlock looks rather shocked, but he nods slowly, “I’ve never done that before,” he confesses. “Not such a. Fresh one,” he glances back at John, who nods and smiles.

“Well it’s not terribly complicated. Start with a wash,” Greg says, pointing Sherlock to the tap at the back of the room. Sherlock shucks off his coat, and hands it to John, then has a very careful wash.

He turns back to us, holding his damp, pink hands aloft like a surgeon, “Now what?”

“Sit on the end of the bed,” I tell him.

Sherlock obeys, and Greg makes the baby transfer for us, “Keep her cuddled up close to you and hold her head up...that’s it. And mind the fontanelle. There you are. You’re holding a baby. Do you feel accomplished?”

Sherlock looks raptly at Katie, and his expression makes me want to pull all of them close where I can hug them and kiss them. “I do, actually,” he murmurs. He glances over his shoulder for John, and John comes closer to stand behind Sherlock and rub his back. Katie’s teeny ginger lashes flutter, and she yawns. Sherlock looks up at me in alarm, “She looked at me!”

John laughs, “It’s all right, love. She isn’t a gorgon; you aren’t going to turn to stone.”

“Don’t be insolent and set a poor example for the baby,” Sherlock says, turning his eyes back to Katie. “She’s looking at me. She’s still looking at me.”

I prod him through the blankets with my foot, “I’ll have her back, when she cries.”

Sherlock nods several times before he answers aloud, “Okay.” She doesn’t cry, though. They only stare at each other in silence for a long moment, then Sherlock clears his throat, “I’m Sherlock. I expect you won’t remember that. Well. Eventually you will. It may take you a bit. Don’t be hard on yourself; you’re only an infant. Being born is quite an accomplishment.” He pauses in his solemn muttering to glance round and see if we’ll laugh. None of us do. “Just behind me is John. He’s my husband, so he’s your uncle as well. Did I say I’m your uncle? I meant to, but I didn’t, did I? I’m rubbish at introductions. When I met John, I was so- Well. That’s neither here nor there. Er.” He looks up at us again, then back at Katie, “I’ve lost the thread of my remarks. Erm. If I. Had one. Oh. I suppose. Thank you for being born. I’m sure Molly is grateful, certainly,” he looks at me with a bit of a grin, and I almost laugh, but also I’m crying. Sherlock looks back at Katie, “We’re all. Erm. Pleased to meet you, and erm. Very proud of you for having er. Turned up. So, ah. Welcome to London.”

At this, John bursts into laughter, and to my surprise, Sherlock follows promptly. I giggle through my tears, and Greg laughs as well, holding my hand and patting my back. We laugh and laugh for a long time, and I keep thinking that any moment, Katie’s going to cry. But she doesn’t.


	453. Chapter 453

“Well. I have never seen someone so conspicuously try and look as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” John tries to drop the grin off his face as he hangs up his jacket. Can’t quite manage it, though.

“Come here and kiss me, and change my expression,” set my book on the arm of my chair and raise my chin invitingly.

John swallows a laugh, wets his lips, and obeys. Mmmm. He situates himself on the free arm of my chair and strokes my hair, “You look sneaky, lovely.”

“Oh, indeed? And to my evident advantage. Kiss me again,” tug his sleeve.

John leans in with a thoughtful sort of tilt to his mouth, brushes his nose against mine, kisses me. Mmmmm. “Going to tell me what you’re up to, lovely?”

“You’re very liberal with your accusations,” I lean into John’s hand on my head, and he very obligingly pulls my hair.

“Your hair is damp,” John leans in and sniffs my hair (he ought to do more smelling, excellent deductive tool)(I’ll tell him)(later). “You’ve washed it. You had a shower in the middle of the afternoon. But you’re in fresh pyjamas, so you weren’t getting ready to go out.”

Smile up at him, “I’ll contradict you when you’re wrong. Go on.”

John bounces an eyebrow, and his hand tightens in my hair, “When?”

Mmmmmm. Swallow, “If.”

John eases my head back with the hand in my hair, noses my jaw. I can feel the whisper of his breath against my ear. Against my pulse. He dots a few little kisses along my jaw up to my ear. “You’ve had a shave, too,” his nose brushes the rim of my ear, and his tongue dabs my earlobe quickly. Squirm a bit. “Ahhh,” John sucks my earlobe into his mouth and pulls on it. Jolt rather hard at that, but he releases me anyway, “Very interesting.”

“Interesting, John?” Should have cleared my throat. My voice is rough (shouldn’t have)(he likes that).

“Very.” John raises my hand and examines my fingernails. His smirk rather broadens and he kisses my palm.

“Care to elaborate?”

“You have trimmed your fingernails, haven’t you?”

Raise an eyebrow, “Does that interest you, John?”

John cups my face and kisses me again, then rises from the arm of the chair and stands in front of me, feet planted, hands tucked behind his back. He raises his chin a bit, “Sherlock.”

Wet my lips. Swallow, “Yes, John?”

“If I were to launch an inquiry, how would I find the state of your freckle accounts?”

“Ah,” feel heat rising in my face. Resist the urge to raise my hand to my cheek and check the warmth.

John tuts and shakes his head, “Thought so. Just what am I going to do with you, Watson?”

Lovely, “I expect you’ll insist on an immediate and thorough audit of all accounts.”

John raises his eyebrows, “‘An immediate and thorough audit of all accounts, sir.’”

Lovely! Shiver, swallow. Rise from my chair, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

…

 

Despite his (enticing)(exciting)(commanding) manner out in the sitting room, John is all happy sighs and tender smiles, once I’ve got him stretched out naked on our bed. Ah well. That is to be expected, isn’t it? Sitting room manners won’t do for the bedroom. And though I was eager enough to put him where he is, I am ready to take my time in advancing from there.

Silly to think of it that way. Advancing. Is it fair to say that any one moment with John's bare skin against mine is equivalent to any other? No, that's also a silly notion. Comparison is odious (someone said that)(?)(no matter). I enjoy touching my John without building toward anything in particular (orgasm)(may as well say). It is enough to lie with him, imbibing the peace and warmth and comfort of his presence like a tonic. Nose along the back of his neck and lick a new freckle (largish, behind his right ear)(if there were freckle accounts, I’d certainly be taking note of flavour)(if only John didn’t lose his head at the sight of a spreadsheet).

John giggles, “I don’t know why this wasn’t what I was expecting.”

Dab my tongue against him again, “Idiot.”

He squirms and pinches me, “Rude.”

Pinch back, “You know my methods. You were applying them well enough out there. Is the bed muddling you, John?”

“Was I applying them well enough? I sort of thought I might be in for a shag,” John rolls to face me and pushes up on his elbow.

Kiss him. Slowly (mmm). Worry at his lower lip with my teeth and tongue until I’ve nearly forgotten what I’m meant to be answering (mmm), “Has the window quite closed?”

John’s eyes are dark when I draw back, and his tongue flicks from one corner of his mouth to the other (mmmm), “Ha no, gorgeous, only you’re generally a bit more point A to point B about it.”

Kiss him again. Bite his chin (it’s rough)(mmmmm), “Should I be offended? I’m considering it.”

John smiles so warmly and strokes my hair, “It’s all compliments, isn’t it?”

Prickle of pleasure at that. Drop my eyes, lean into his hand, “Indeed.” Shut my eyes to better absorb the feel of his strong fingers in my hair. “I surprised myself with how much

I am enjoying you, John. Makes me eager to take my time. To savour.”

“Does it still surprise you?” John tugs gently. “That’s good, isn’t it? We like that. Mmm. Surprises. Take them where we can find them, don’t we?”

Don’t answer until he tugs again (savouring)(mmm I can smell him, I can feel his breath on my face)(I am having what I want and I am waiting for it, both at once)(delicious),

“Yes, John. We take them where we find them.”


	454. Chapter 454

I came home to a silent flat one evening, and after a bit of searching, I found my Sherlock up in the empty bedroom, sat on the floor, rooting through a cardboard box. He looked so sweet and young, his chin on his knee and his cheek smudged with dust. I stood in the doorway and watched him quietly for a bit, probably grinning like a fool.  
Sherlock looked up at me after just a moment and ruffled his hair, “Hello John.” He smiled.

“Hullo lovely,” I stepped into the room but hovered near the door, my hands clasped behind my back, “Don’t let me interrupt you. Is that for a case?”

Sherlock stood and stretched, then crossed the room and kissed me, “Journeys end in lovers meeting, John.”

“Ha, right. Not a case, then?”

“Only a little nostalgia, John,” Sherlock kissed me again. “You’ve rubbed off on me. Disgusting.”

“Mmmyep, as often as I can manage it, gorgeous,” I rubbed the small of his back. He hummed a bit, and I petted down to his hip, “I’ve got something to talk to you about, lovely. Want to come out for dinner with me?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Put me where you want me, John. You’ve something to tell me over dinner, mmm?” He raised his left hand, turned it over and looked at it. “Well I’m fairly sure we’re already married, so it isn’t that.”

I laughed and kissed his hand, “Hey, you got to propose. Why shouldn’t I?”

Sherlock smiled, “My answer is yes. Will you still take me to dinner?”

“Absolutely.” I kissed his hand again, then looked up into his face, “It’s nothing serious. Well. It is serious, but it isn’t a row. I think.”

Sherlock’s eyes bounced over me, deducing me, but his smile didn’t flicker, “Not a row. All right. Promising. I’ll go down and get tidied up.” He kissed my cheek, then brushed past me down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I brought Sherlock a glass of wine just as he was stepping into the bedroom, flushed from the steam of the shower, sweet-smelling, and wrapped in a towel.

“Ah thank you, John,” he sipped, then set his glass on his chest of drawers. “I appreciate your confidence that this won't hamper my toilette.” He tossed the towel over a chair.

I stretched out on the bed and sipped from my own glass, “I’ve learned not to have anything to say about the duration of your toilette, lovely. It does what it will, like a natural disaster or something.”

Sherlock laughed and began to pull clothes out of the wardrobe, “How you flatter me.”

"I say what I mean."

"That's why it's flattering." Sherlock held up a shirt, "Yes?"

"I do love you in that colour, but wear something you can eat in. We're going to Angelo's, and you know he'll send dessert."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and put the shirt back in the wardrobe, then selected another, "Wine, dinner, suspense, serious conversation. That takes me back, John."

I had another sip of my wine and watched Sherlock pull his shirt on before I answered, "We do that a lot, actually."

"Are you preparing me for something?" Sherlock turned to look at me as he did up his shirt buttons.

"It really isn't a row, lovely."

Sherlock's mouth twitched, "Obviously I trust your prediction of my response."

"I can tell you the boring bit now, if you like," I sipped again. "If you feel nervous. It isn't so nice to eat on a nervous stomach."

"Why should I be nervous? Are you going to be toying with me through dessert, John?"

"I do it how you like it, Fortunato." I fidgeted with the stem of my glass for a moment, then finished the wine and put the glass aside. "Maybe I'm projecting. Here's the boring bit, then. I'm leaving my job at the surgery. I've already handed in my notice. I knew you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock's expression didn't change exactly, but there was a little ripple of feeling through his face. His mouth went soft. And his eyes. I love it when he looks at me that way. That always makes me want to kiss him, "That's the boring bit, is it?" His voice was sweet and eager, "Am I going to have you to myself, John?"

I nodded and grinned, "And vice versa. Mind you don't forget that bit, Fortunato."

"Indeed, Montresor. I'll be in your merciless clutches every hour of my life." Sherlock licked his lips and gave me another of his deducing looks.

I cocked my head, "Get anything?"

"It'd be churlish of me to spoil the surprise," Sherlock answered airily, finishing his wine.

I laughed, "Well, get your trousers on. We must surprise ourselves. Let's not keep us waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, we are approaching the end of this story. This present plot arc will be our last. Spoiler alert: we're having a happy ending. The last chapter has been written; it made my husband cry. Thank you for sticking with me so long. I couldn't have done it without you. 
> 
> I'm planning to write much more short fic, and I'm outlining a new long piece that I'm going to get to work on after I finish with TOOITW. ALSO. After I post the end of this story, I will be taking one-off prompts for missing scenes and the like in this verse. If you'd like to submit one, please visit my blog captain-liddy.tumblr.com and send me an ask! 
> 
> Thank you again for all your love and support. It has meant so much to me. This has been a really special part of my life, and I'm very happy to have shared it with you. I'll see you around! 
> 
> Liddy


	455. Chapter 455

John has a smear of gâteau on his chin. I'm not going to tell him. His eyes are shining with affection and wine and chocolate and candle light, and the smear on his chin makes a very charming accessory. His legs are stretched out to meet mine under the table, and his ankle is pressed against my ankle. He rubs it on mine from time to time. Bestirred by his overflowing affection (can feel static building at the friction between our socks)(shouldn't be erotic; is). I am dazzled to look at him (will I ever be able to look right into that devotion?)(it must be glimpsed sidelong or through smoked glass or it may well burn out everything else in creation)(a universe of John)(more than acceptable)(soon to be mine!)(he's left his job for me)(?).

Giggle thinking of John divorcing his work to be with me, and he beams back at me, "What's that, lovely?"

"The usual," I say, squeezing his hand when he takes mine, "Giddy with you."

John strokes my palm with his thumb (mmm), then clears his throat as if collecting his thoughts, “So. Lovely.”

“So, John.”

“I did actually want to talk to you about something. Specific,” John looks down at our joined hands as he speaks, then back into my face.

“Ah, indeed. The big surprise,” flutter my fingers in his grip, and he squeezes me tighter.

John cocks his head, “Not a surprise as such. Not really. More of a proposition.”

“A proposition?” arch an eyebrow and smile, “It must be ambitious indeed for such lavish preamble. Tell me John, will there be paraphernalia?”

John laughs and squeezes my hand, “Dinner is lavish preamble now, is it?” He licks his lips, “A man’s got to eat.”

Raise my glass and tap it against his, “I’ll drink to that.”

We both sip, and John considers me over the rim of his glass for a moment (coquettish), “Have you finished with derailing me, then?”

“I shall never finish, John.”

John laughs and his thumb starts up on my palm again, “Well I’ll just spit it out, shall I? So. Erm. I’ve er. Been approached. About writing a book. About us. Well. You, really. And, ah. I want to do it. If I have your permission.”

“Ah, your reputation as the world’s foremost expert in Sherlock Holmes has got about, has it? Your just deserts for all that starry-eyed blogging, John.”

John smiles sheepishly and nods, “Well, think it over. I know my prose isn’t much, but-”

I break in on him, “Excuse me, John; I should have been more plain. Absolutely you have my permission. Of course.”

John grins, “Just like that, eh?”

“Of course, John. Why shouldn’t it be?”

John squeezes my hand and rubs it quite hard with his thumb(tickles), “Well it’s gratifying that you trust me to put you into words, lovely.”

“You do it better than I do, John. Better than anyone could.”

“Well,” John is blinding. John is celestial. No, no, that’s wrong. Glorious yes, but not a star to orbit. My partner. My other half. He raises my hand. Kisses it, “I’ve made a special study of you, you know, Sherlock. You’re my life’s work.”


	456. Chapter 456

“A book?”  
“Yes.”  
“About you?”  
“Yes.”  
“Who’d read that?”  
“The pruriently over-interested. Id est you, Molly Marie Hooper, sometimes known as Miss Nose.”  
“Though it should be Doctor Nose. Will I get an autographed first edition?”  
“Ask the author.”  
“Funny to think of John being an author.”  
“I know.”  
“Will he have a pipe and a thoughtful expression in the frontispiece?”  
“Indubitably.”  
“Lend him the hat.”  
“I intend to.”

...

“Mmmm! That was a good one.”  
“Thank you, John. I’ve been practising.”  
“It shows.”  
“Thank you. Well then. What shall we do with our Wednesday, John? Now we have it entirely to ourselves. Something bookish, I expect? After breakfast.”  
“You’re cooking.”  
“I suppose it’s a special occasion.”  
“I want a great greasy fry-up. And coffee that’ll take my eyebrows off.”  
“I’ll see what I can do. Though I’m rather fond of your eyebrows.”  
“I’ll put that in the book.”  
“Indeed? What else will you put in the book, John?”  
“This and that. I’ll want to interview you, actually. Maybe do a few interviews. I’ve been writing down questions.”  
“Is there anything still left for you to find out? Don’t you know me back to front and inside out, John?”  
“Well even so, I might know a bit more. Just a bit more.”  
“You’re cunning enough at discovering whatever you like about me, so I’m sure you’ll know all you want to know.”

...

Sherlock was stood at the stove with a lab apron tied on over my dressing gown, tending to fried eggs. Sherlock poured a cup of coffee, splashed milk in it, then brought it to me at the kitchen table with a kiss.

I grinned and kissed him again, “A man could get used to this.”

“Feel free,” Sherlock rubbed my shoulder for a moment, then went back to the eggs.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

He cocked his head over his shoulder and grinned at me, “It might come true.”

I laughed, “Have you been secretly so doting this whole time?”

Sherlock actually batted his eyelashes, “You won’t put it in the book, will you?”

I laughed again, “It wasn’t such a secret anyway, was it?”

“The openest of open secrets, John.” He regarded me sunnily for a long moment, then took the pan of eggs off the hob. “I have something for you, John.”

“That so? You look pleased; I’m sure it’s nice.”

Sherlock bounced his eyebrows at me, “Back in a tic,” and he turned and went up the stairs to the empty bedroom without waiting for me to reply. He returned a moment later, holding a very nice pen aloft like a baton, “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a pen.”

“It’s a recorder. Molly gave it to me for my birthday years ago.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and read aloud, “‘For posterity’” Then he pressed an invisible button on the pen and a tinny approximation of his baritone crackled out, “‘Molly Hooper is a very thoughtful smart arse.’” Sherlock grinned, “Auspicious, isn’t it?”

“I like it! It’s got ambiance,” I took the pen when he handed it to me and looked closely at it to find the button for recording. “Makes me feel like a spy.”

“I’ll make you a present of it, John. Use it in good health.” Sherlock dished up the food and brought it to the table. “Go on, John. You want your strength,” he nudged my plate toward me.

I tucked in straight away, “Right!” I looked up from my plate, because Sherlock didn’t seem to be eating. He was watching me with a silly grin on his face. I grinned back, “Have I got beans down my front?”

Sherlock snorted, but his face went soft again almost at once, “I just. I still can’t believe that I have you quite to myself.”


	457. Chapter 457

"Okay, this John Watson interviewing Sherlock Holmes for TMHHB-"  
"TMHHB, what's that?"  
"Shhh, it's the title."  
"You've already titled it?"  
"Yes, shhhh; it's not your bit yet. Wait for me to ask you questions. John Watson i-"  
"How can you have titled it when it's not been written yet?"  
"Well I know what it's about, don't I? John Watson inter-"  
"What does TMHHB stand for?"  
"It stands for 'The Most Human Human Being.'"  
"'The Most Human Human Being.' That's me, is it? Am I human?"  
"Yes, it's you, love."  
"I've heard you say that before."  
"Well, you can't have done, so-"  
"I have. I know I have. Only I can't place when. Did you put it on the blog?"  
"No, I didn't. Joh-"  
"Well I've heard it somewhere; I know I...oh!...Oh."  
"Sherlock. How could you possibly have heard it? I. You were dead. Well. Temporarily. You were dead, and I was. I was alone."  
"No. I never died, John."  
"Right, I know that. I mean. I know it wasn't real. I. But I was alone."  
"No, John. I was there. I was with you. I heard you."  
“You heard me?”  
“I heard you. Every word, John.”  
"Is there anywhere you aren't?"  
"Not if you're there."  
"Right. Hem. Scuse me."  
"Should we have a little. A break or something?"  
"Ha, no. I'm fine. Just a bit."  
"Yes, it's all right. Take your time."  
"Ha, auspicious start, eh?"  
"That bit is over now, John."  
"I know."  
"I'm never going to leave you again."  
"Like I'd let you. Anyway. We've got that sorted, right Sherlock? Murder suicide."  
"Murder suicide, John. Put it in the book."  
"Quite obvious already, isn't it?"

…

“So lovely. What were you hoping I’d ask you?”  
“That’s quite a good question, actually.”  
“I know. I’m a bit clever.”  
“Indeed. Mm well, I suppose I was hoping you’d let me talk about you. You are the best part of me, you know.”  
“Flatterer.”  
“Never, John.”  
“Well all right then. I will ask you about me. Why me? Why’d you pick me?”  
“You picked me just as much as I picked you, John.”  
“Right, well when you write a book about me, you can ask me all about it. Why’d you pick me?”  
“That very first time?”  
“Yeah, very first time. Why’d you want to be my flatmate?”  
“I’ve told you before. Because you gave me your phone.”  
“That’s really all it was?”  
“It’s a microcosm, John.”  
“That doesn’t really answer the question, you know.”  
“Because I liked you, and you liked me.”  
“Well there you are. Simple as that, eh?”  
“It’s sort of interesting that you don’t seem to have any idea how magnetic you are. Yes, it’s as simple as that. You emit this kind, steady gentlemanliness that I found very attractive. Don’t look like that; you asked and I’m telling you! That’s only a bit of it, but yes it was a bit. I liked the look of you. I wanted you in my presence. I wanted you to talk to me the way you talked to me and look at me the way you looked at me, and I wanted you to give me things and do things for me and I wanted you to let me reciprocate. I wanted to see if I could make you smile and laugh. I wanted to look at you and touch you. I was attracted to you, John. You’re familiar with the sensation?”  
“Rings a little bell.”  
“Why did you pick me? You should have run off screaming for the hills.”  
“Well same thing, really. I suppose. Well. I felt like you were the only person who’d really seen me in ages. Since I’d got home at least. You saw me, and you understood me. That’s an addicting feeling, isn’t it? Being noticed.”  
“Oh god yes.”

…

“Okay John Watson interviewing Sherlock Holmes for ‘The Most Human Human Being’ session one.”  
“Well done.”  
“Thanks. Third time’s the charm. Okay. Favourite colour?”  
“Oh for the love of god, John! Of all the boring-”  
“Who’s asking the questions?”  
“Bully.”  
“And you like it. Favourite colour, Fortunato?”  
“Are you putting it in the book that you used sexual bullying to extract information from me, because I am putty helpless under your arts? Witch?”  
“I think it’ll be obvious. And I know that look. We’ve just got started, and it’s too early for a break! Though I am rather in the mood for a pressing, now you mention it.”  
“Oh, I think you’ll have earned one by the end of this session, John.”  
“I feel sure of it.”  
“We’ll do the interview for a bit, then the pressing, then we’ll have dinner.”  
“Maybe a kip between the pressing and dinner.”  
“That seems likely.”  
“Favourite colour?”  
“Lilac.”  
“Last time you said blue.”  
“Oh for the...Okay pressing first, then the interview.”


	458. Chapter 458

“That tickles,” John squirms under me (mmm) and I shift a bit to hold his hips tighter.

“I haven’t done anything yet, John.” Stroke his hip, kiss the small of his back, down toward his arse. Wet, soft-mouthed kisses.

John’s breath catches, and he squirms again, “Tickles!”

“Mmm?” Suck a round, red mark onto his skin, then nuzzle it rather wetly. “Should I stop?” Pause and hover over him, my nose just barely brushing him. “Ready to repent and recant, witch?” Nip at him, and John makes a sound something between a moan and a growl and raises his hips on his little cushion tower. “Intractable, mm?” Dot John with quick damp, light, whispery kisses. He huffs into his pillow and raises his hips again. “That looks like repentance to me,” nip quite sharply, and John jerks back against me.

“Get on with it,” his voice is rough.

Bite again, “Don’t forget your place, witch. Who’s under whom?”

“Sherlock,” there’s the tiniest note of pleading in his voice, and it fans the shimmering spark in my gut.

“Yes, John.” I dribble a bit of saliva onto him, then run it briskly down his crack to his perineum with the tip of my finger. John muffles a groan into his pillow, and the flare in my middle brightens. Bring my finger slowly back up to his arsehole, and it flexes under my fingertip. I apply a bit more saliva, then rub slow, gentle circles, and John sighs through his nose.

“Mmm that’s lovely,” there’s a droolish wetness to John’s voice (think briefly of John slicking my fingers in his wet, wet mouth)(shiver). In answer, I shift onto my belly and replace my finger with my tongue. John jolts back against me and makes a little gasp that mellows into a sweet, humming moan. Lovely. Hold him down and open and stroke against the grain of the peach fuzz on his buttocks.

“Ooooh Sherlock, yes. Mmm ohhhh that’s. Yeah, that’s good.” Lovely. Lick in leisurely, insistent swirls, and John moans and shivers and rocks his hips forward against his cushions. Shut my eyes and picture John’s cock as it must be at the moment, richly flushed and dribbling pre-come. Makes my mouth water. Lovely.

“FffffuckSherlockgodyesohgod.” Blush and shiver as I always do when he speaks to me that way in that sweet, raspy voice (my John is pleased with me)(!). Point my tongue and press it slowly into John.

He bucks quite sharply, first back against me (my lip’ll swell)(good), then forward into his cushions, “Ohhhfuck! Sherlock, yes! Mmmnfaahh.” He’s close, very close. If I can touch his cock, I’ll push him over in a few strokes. Tap and tug at his hip with my free hand to indicate that he should rise up on his knees, but he doesn’t, “Can I come in your mouth, please, gorgeous? I want your mouth. I want to see your face.” I sit back in immediate acquiescence, and John rolls over and leans back against his pillows, “Kiss me, Sherlock.”

Swab off my wet chin with the back of my hand and lean in a little hesitantly, but John cups my jaw and kisses me. He strokes my ear and down my neck, his hand raising gooseflesh in its wake. I shiver, and John wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me flush on top of him, pressing his damp cock against my belly.

Draw back and look into John’s face. His tongue is hovering at the corner of his lips as if missing mine, and his eyes are bright and dark, both at once (thunder and lightning).

Too shining to look at. I want to hide my face. I want to hide myself. I want to disappear into him, “Can I make you come now, John? Please?”

John considers me for a moment, then holds up his hand, palm out, “Lick, please.” I hasten to obey. My clever and beautiful John reaches between us and aligns our cocks, presses them together and begins to stroke both of us at once. Groan (already querulous and high) and thrust up into his hand. John swallows, shivers, quickens his stroking,

“Come on, gorgeous. You’re close already, aren’t you?” I am (how did he do that?)(working spells on me, always). “Come on, Sherlock.”

I can feel John’s thighs trembling beneath me (mmmmm)(he’s holding back for my sake). Thrust harder on John’s downstroke, and he rubs his palm rough against the head of my cock and leans forward to catch my lip between his teeth. Jolt hard, gasp, and come. John follows just behind me with a sweet little shout.

He wipes his hands on the sheets and we lie still for a long moment (or a thousand moments), John clutching me round the waist, his face against my shoulder, and his legs tangled in mine. Perhaps I may actually disappear into him, if he holds me tight enough. Would he like that? Sag off him to the side after a bit and lay my head on his shoulder. I glide my palm up and down John’s chest, over his belly, along his hips. If I can’t sink into him, at least I can commit every centimetre of him to memory. Every heartbeat, every eyelash, every molecule of John. I want it all. Find the impressive thump of his femoral pulse with my fingertips.

“John,” my voice is still rough (sounds almost reverent now), “your pulse is so quick.”

“Is it?” he murmurs and kisses my hair. “I must be in love.”


	459. Chapter 459

“You told me once that Mycroft imagines his little finger to be the axis of the planet-”  
“Did I? That’s dramatic.”  
“Well he does do that.”  
“True.”  
“And that’s why you don’t get on, isn’t it?”  
“We get on for about six minutes at a time.”  
“Better than nothing.”  
“Yes, I agree.”  
“Did you ever get on with Mycroft?”  
“When I was small, I adored him. We adored each other, actually. He used to read to me for hours and hours.”  
“Did he really?”  
“He taught me to read. He’d read a sentence and have me read it back to him.”  
“What did you read together?”  
“Fairy tales at first. Not Grimm, somehow. Perrault and Andersen. And then Eager and Lewis and Carroll and Nesbit. And Kipling of course. Stevenson and Tolkien. And then finally Poe.”  
“Finally?”  
“He. Well. He’s seven years my senior, and it was unimportant until it was important.”  
“Oh.”  
“It is difficult to watch yourself diminish in significance to someone who still means the world to you.”  
“Yeah.”  
“I doubt that Mycroft would describe our past that way, but there you have it.”  
“Do you still feel erm. Diminished?”  
“Not exactly. I’m probably the only person Mycroft actually considers important. I am aware of that.”  
“But?”  
“He thinks he knows everything that there is to know about me. What can I say to that? I never feel simultaneously so completely transparent and utterly misunderstood as when I am at odds with Mycroft. He doesn’t trust me; he embarrasses me; he frustrates me. He can predict me, and that is enough nuance for him.”  
“His loss.”  
“Thank you, John.”

…

"So lovely."  
"John."  
"You told me once that- ooh, ha, what are you doing?"  
"You've got your interview face on, so I thought you might like the recorder. I saw it right there in your breast pocket, so I thought I'd help myself. And you."  
"Ha, thanks. Have I got an interview face?"  
"It's mainly in the forehead. Go on. I told you once..."  
"Right, yes. Erm. So you told me once that it's impossible to discuss your past, or even I suppose, to examine your past with clarity."  
"Because you're always telling yourself a story about how you got to be who you are."  
"Right, yes. Do you still feel that way? We were talking specifically about your mum, I think.'  
"Yes, I remember. Ahhh. Hmm. Yes, I think I do still feel that way. Yes. But I would add that. Well, there isn't really another way to approach your past, is there? How can there be an objective truth about one's own personal experience? Of course my feelings about my mother colour my perception of my past. My feelings about my mother are part of my past as well as my present. It's human nature. You can't separate out logic from emotion. To be alive, to be human is to feel. But logic can help you to parse and control your emotions. Not that everything bears parsing."  
"Not everything bears parsing?"  
"Well. Sometimes there isn't any point in dissecting a feeling, is there? Better to enjoy it. Or ignore it."   
"So what tack are you taking with your feelings about your mum? Enjoy or ignore?"  
"Ignore, mainly. It happened. It was miserable. Now it's over. It isn't useful sadness. It's a burden."  
"You deserved better, love."  
"Every child does."  
"And you specifically."  
"Yes, all right. Me specifically. And so did she."  
"Yeah, of course she did."  
"You're getting really really good at this, John."  
"The interviewing? Ta, lovely."  
"Good at me. You always have been, but you're also continually getting better. It's quite astounding, John."  
"Practise, lovely. Lots and lots of practise. I could say the same for you, you know."  
"I at least know you better than to accuse you of flattery, John."  
"The unvarnished truth, love."

...

“Okay so. Here’s one.”  
“Go on.”  
“What’s the best thing you know?”  
“Ooh, that is a good one, John.”  
“Isn’t it.”  
“Hmm. Well. I know you.”  
“Ha, true love, but I’m not a body of knowledge.”  
“Aren’t you?”  
“All right then, I’ll bite. How so?”  
“Well I know your eyes and your hair and your voice and your smile. I know your gait and your posture when you sit, stand, or recline. I know the faces you make when you chew when you’re listening and when you’re only pretending to listen but you’re really just chewing. I know how far you can run before you get tired, and I know how hungry you can get before you become essentially useless with crankiness.”  
“Thanks.”  
“I keep you fed.”  
“Ha, true.”  
“Indeed. I know how long it takes you to type a blog post that you’ve already written out longhand on a notepad. Are you hiring a transcriptionist for the book? It’s not too late.”  
“Shut up.”  
“I know when a ‘shut up’ means shut up, and I know when it means, ‘go on like that, please.’”  
“You might think you know better than you do.”  
“No, I don’t.”  
“No, you don’t.”  
“Anyway, I’m only coming to my point. Do you see what it is yet?”  
“Tell me what it is, lovely.”  
“You do see it.”  
“Tell me.”  
“I need to be a partner. You. Unfurl me.”  
“Conductor of light. I remember.”  
“Oh stop reminding me that I said that. As we are now, it’s a positive insult.”  
“I still remember it fondly.”  
“I’m sure I never can bear to argue with you.”  
“Haaaaa.”  
“Anyway. I haven’t only. I don’t tote you around to flatter me, John.”  
“No. Also sometimes arguing.”  
“I meant that. It’s difficult to put it into words. Erm. My life has improved beyond my imaginings now I’ve been able to admit that I am better with you, and you are better with me. We each have something to freely give the other. If a person can be meant for something, you and I are meant to marry our talents together and navigate life as a pair. That is the best thing I know. The best thing that I can imagine knowing. How to be your partner. How to stand with you.”  
“Sherlock. I. You. That’s. Hem. Sorry. That’s quite a good thing to know.”  
“Isn’t it.”

…

“So. Last question, love.”  
“Ever?”  
“Well I suppose I may still ask you to pass the butter and what the hell you’re doing from time to time.”  
“Are we finished with the interviews, then?”  
“Yeah, well. I’ve got to actually write the book, haven’t I? I’m sure I’ll have lots more questions when I get properly into the thing, but yeah, I’d thought this will be the end of the interviews.”  
“I like the interviews.”  
“We’ll pretend, then.”  
“Or you’ll write another book.”  
“Let’s just get through this one first and see how we feel.”  
“Fine, be sensible.”  
“Okay. So. What’s next?”  
“How do you mean?”  
“What’s next for you? Well for us, I suppose.”  
“Next?”  
“Right, what do you want to do next?”  
“Is something different? Can’t I carry on being a detective?”  
“Well, I meant. Sure, of course you can.”  
“It was the only way I could ever find out to do anybody any good....Oh don’t look like that, John. I said it was the only way, not is the only way.”  
“You do loads of people loads of good, even when you aren’t detecting, you know.”  
“Do I? Mmm, I change my mind. I’ve had enough of doing people good. I’m going to be a pirate now. I’ve already got a monocular, a hat, and a blunderbuss.”  
“Thanks to me.”  
“Indeed. Are you going to run away to sea with me, John?”  
“I’m right behind you, lovely.”


	460. Chapter 460

Introduction

I cannot compliment this book, because it is chiefly about me, and that would be unpardonable narcissism. As I am an unpardonable narcissist, I will confess that I adore it. I trust you won’t mention that to John. He has taken it on himself to cure me of the nastiest of my faults. 

Perhaps John will not fault me for enjoying his stories. He has always told them with an eye to pleasing me, I believe. Certainly he portrays me as a gallant genius, and it is difficult to complain of that, except to accuse him of romanticising. However I have found that when one accuses one’s own husband of romanticism, one is subject to quite a pleasant series of fondly delivered indictments (and perhaps two or three kisses). Evidently my scolding is not as efficacious as is John’s. 

Now I have made you all glad that John is your author and not me (though he would have ‘with Sherlock Holmes’ tacked on under his name on the cover of this book), I suppose I ought to be nearing the conclusion of my introduction. Only I’ve hardly done any introducing yet, and John’s terrifying editor is already certain to hack this to shreds (thank you, Stacey; you are very kind to assist us). Nonetheless, it is time for me to have done with my windbagging, and let you get on with the book. Nearly. 

Herein you will read the details of our ridiculous adventures. We hope that you find them exciting and instructive in some small way (though the terrifying Stacey Augusta did excise every last one of the diagrams I drew). This is the story of the best things I’ve ever done, told by the bravest, kindest, wisest man I’ve known. And truly, the good that I have been fortunate enough to achieve has been under his assistance or at his service. 

Look closely, and you will find that it is John and not I who is your dashing hero. Though I may be the one to have blundered, begged, borrowed, or stolen us into the bulk of our adventures, they have often come to their happy conclusions because of the boldness, the cleverness, the wisdom, and the strength of your author, my husband John Watson. 

Or as John might say, if he could be induced to pay himself a compliment, John is your Prince Charming. You may trust him to carry you through peril and into your happily ever after. Let us congratulate ourselves on having chosen well and bask in the gladness that he has chosen us right back.


End file.
